


Pythagorean Expectation

by slytherinski



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 90s, Age Difference, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, Baseball, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bottom Tony Stark, Coming Out, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Porn With Plot, Rivalry, Secret Relationship, Semi Slow Burn, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Sports, Team Dynamics, Time Skips, Top Steve Rogers, Top Tony Stark, i know this AU is niche but give it a chance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 182,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherinski/pseuds/slytherinski
Summary: Steve turns, feeling his heart fall out of his chest at the figure walking towards them. This has to be a dream. A nightmare— one that Steve has definitely had before.Tony Stark walking towards them does not compute. Even with his eyes shrouded by orange-tinted spectacles, there is no mistaking that lopsided grin and casual strut onto the field even from a distance. Steve's head is swimming with questions. Tony holds so much notoriety right now that it would be near impossible to keep him transferring teams a secret, especially considering the team he would be leaving is owned by his own family.(Aka, the fic in which Steve and Tony are rivals both off and on the baseball field— until they aren’t. And it’s also in the 90s, because why the hell not.)





	1. Base Hit

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, so, this is the first fic I’m ever posting in literally over 5 years? It’s been a long break from writing, but here we are.
> 
> Overall Disclaimer; I in no way claim to be a baseball expert. Tbh, I used to not even like the sport since I played it in first grade. I’ve done a lot of research to write this fic, and now have a soft spot after the hours of reading about a sport I once found pretty boring. I did my best to go into details about how baseball works where necessary to the story, hopefully not losing anybody who knows nothing about the sport (like I once was). I decided to bend the history of the sport at least a little bit to my will when it comes to roles of women and PoC (not that the MCU puts a lot of that in the spotlight anyway cough cough), so just suspend some belief as this is not at all meant to be completely accurate to how major and minor league baseball worked in the 80s/90s. There’s also some other events of the sport that I’m 100% bullshitting just for plot reasons in this fic.
> 
> TLDR; This is a gay, self-indulgent, sports rivalry!AU Steve/Tony fanfic, not historically accurate baseball literature. Enjoy!

August, 1968

 

Nothing can beat late summers in Brooklyn, not to Steve Rogers at least. The sun casts shadows across the open field, the dirt a deep red and marred with cleat marks. Trash bin lids are spaced evenly apart in a charmingly lopsided diamond, makeshift chalk lines stretching between each one. Chirping crickets accompany the steady sound of a baseball thumping against leather palms. It’s serene once the jeering and chatter of school boys drifts away, their game having ended on the cusp of dusk.

 

Two players remain, tossing the ball in the outfield of yellowing grass. Back and forth, alternating between high lobs and fast pitches. They move with perfect synchronization despite the differences in their appearance, size and stature holding no similarities.

 

Steve loves these moments with Bucky—staying after their games with the other neighborhood kids just to toss the ball around was almost more fun than playing the actual match.

 

“Going back to school in two weeks is going to be such a bummer,” Bucky says, returning the ball to Steve.

 

“Don’t remind me,” Steve groans, catching the ball. He kneads it against his glove for a moment before tossing it back as hard as he can. He’s hoping Bucky would have to stretch for it, but of course he catches the ball easily. He has a much better arm than Steve, aside from the bad elbow that gives him the occasional tinge of pain. The older they get, the more noticeable the differences in their bodies become. Buck is a year older, but he has already filled out so much more than Steve could ever hope to. Sure, his scrawniness aids in speed, which he needs both on the field and off when running away from bullies.

 

The bullies. Just another reason Steve doesn’t want this Summer to end.

 

“We should head back before Sarah gets mad. Sun’s already going down,” Bucky tosses the ball in the air to himself, walking towards the fence gate with Steve.

 

Removing his glove, Bucky wipes his sweaty palm against his dirt-stained pants. “I think I’m going to drop out in a couple years and join the rookie leagues.”

 

Steve scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

 

“Don’t think I can hack it?” Bucky asks with a smirk, giving his younger friend a shove.

 

Steve knows the friendly hustle is coming, but it still makes him stumble. “You’re a great player, Buck. I bet you could make it into the rookies with one arm tied behind your back but your parents want you to join the army as soon as you’re done with school.”

 

“That’s so far away! And school is bogue anyway,” Bucky huffs out a sigh. “I can try out for the rookies in two years, and that gives me three more to make a name for myself before I’m old enough to enlist.”

 

Bucky has always had these plans of grandeur, ever since they were kids. Telling Steve how they were going to tackle the world, Bucky either becoming an important astronaut, lawyer, detective, doctor, cowboy, all those things and more. In every fantasy, all Steve wants to do is to make art and play baseball. He doesn’t need to be some sort of super hero.

 

“You’re crazy,” Steve concludes with a head shake.

 

“You’ll try out too once you’re fifteen,” Bucky assures, throwing an arm around Steve’s bony shoulders.

 

Steve rolls his eyes. “My mom would bean me with my own bat before I got the chance.”

 

Bucky laughs. “Come on, we do everything together. I don’t want to play ball without you, we made a pact remember? No matter what we’re doing or where we end up, we’ll be there together.” He bumps their hips together as they started the walk home. “’Til the end of the line?”

 

Steve smiles up at his best friend, bringing his arm up to wrap around Bucky’s waist. “’Til the end of the line.”

  


 

September, 1983

 

_“Alright, folks, bottom of the ninth and the Serpents are back up to the plate. It’s been a tight game so far; with every lead Pittsburgh takes, Brooklyn steps up each time to catch ‘em.”_

 

_“That may be so, but it’s not looking great for the Stars only being two up with some of Pittsburgh’s best stepping up to bat.”_

 

_“The only question is, can Bradley keep it together in these last, crucial moments? His pitching has been up and down all season, but you can tell he really wants this win to take at the end of their run after not making it to the post-season yet again.”_

 

_“That may be true, but Isaiah Bradley as a seasoned vet and captain to this team knows how to turn around a game. While his pitching certainly hasn’t been its best, the Stars’ infielders have more than made up for that, but this is an iconic defensive line-up we’re seeing, even with newcomers like Rogers and Barnes.”_

 

The cacophonous roar of the crowd drowns out the announcers as they always do to the players down on the field. Steve never listens anyway, always finding it as more of a distraction than anything else. There is no way they could let the Serpents get another run. As soon as they get one, they’re that much closer to being tied and that’s when the team is going to start falling apart.

 

Steve stands at the first base, ready as the first of Pittsburg’s lineup takes the plate. He glances across the field, catching his third baseman’s eye. Bucky grins at him, giving a nod. _We can take them_ , says the look _._ Steve nods back. _We sure can._

 

Isaiah throws the first pitch, his arm like a cannon. Steve will always be in awe of his captain’s throw, much like everyone else in the league. Isaiah Bradley is one of the oldest players still in the major league, rumors of his retirement constantly swirling as he nears 50 years of age. Steve has only been playing with Isaiah for a season now, but he can’t imagine not having the man as his Captain and confidant.

 

The batter swings, a loud crack going through the stadium as the ball sails easily into the outfield. Steve watches it hurtle through the sky from first base, the batter already sprinting towards him. The ball goes straight into one of their outfielder’s gloves, a mixed roar of applause and groans coming from the stadium as he is deemed out.

 

“Two more times, Isaiah, two more times,” Steve mumbles under his breath, watching the next batter step up. Reyes is a force to be reckoned with, easily the best batter on Pittsburgh’s side. He’s already gotten three home runs in this game alone, and if he does it now it’s going to be a huge hit to the Stars’ morale in these final minutes.

 

Reyes connects the bat with the ball, easily earning himself a double despite Brooklyn’s best efforts. Steve watches Isaiah wipe some sweat from his brow, praying that their pitcher can keep it together.

 

The Stars catch a break as the next batter strikes out, swinging and missing all three pitches that Isaiah throws. The sound in the stadium is raising, premature victory chants coming from the Brooklyn fans as the Serpent’s next batter steps up to the plate.

 

_“All Bradley has to do is strike out the Serpent’s number 23, Alan Hemming, and this game is over. First throw—a strike! By George, Bradley may be able to pull this one off.”_

 

_“Second pitch now, aaaand, Hemming hits it into the infield! That earns him a double and Reyes is headed to home!”_

 

Steve curses under his breath when he isn’t quite fast enough to stop Reyes from sliding in a second before he gets the ball back to the catcher. Pittsburgh is now only one behind and has two outs with a player on second. Steve begins to feel the pressure, running the last play in his head over and over trying to figure out if there was any way he could’ve gotten Reyes or Hemming out. It isn’t time for regrets as another Serpent steps up to the plate.

 

_“That last play has fans from both sides on the edge of their seats. All it takes is one more out or one more run to change the entire course of the game.”_

 

Isaiah’s next pitch goes straight to the batter who hits a ground ball toward third base. Now’s their chance. Bucky scoops up the ball, Hemmings already safely on third. There isn’t a single moment of hesitation before Bucky fires the ball back towards first, Steve keeping a foot on his base as he easily receives the throw.

 

“ _And with that, it’s an out for Thompson and a win for the Stars! That was an incredible play by first and third basemen, Rogers and Barnes, but it’s become a classic defensive move we’ve seen from them this past season.”_

 

_“Those two know how to work together, and they managed to secure a win for the Stars when they needed it most. I don’t know about you all, but I’ll be anxiously awaiting their return in the exhibition games next year to see what else they’ve got in store for everyone.”_

 

As the team comes off the pitch, hooting and hollering in their victory, Steve manages to catch Bucky rubbing the inside of his elbow, his smile looking pained as he celebrates with the rest of the team. Steve makes his way over to him, catching him by the shoulder. "Is your elbow okay?"

 

Bucky immediately drops his fingers away from the joint, shrugging it off with a lopsided smile that didn't convince Steve for a second. "It's fine, as always. Needs a little oil is all.”

 

Bucky has always had his "bad elbow" on his dominant left arm, which he’s always played off as nothing more than that. After the years of playing baseball, Steve tends to keep a close eye on it. His last attempt to bring it up to the team's trainer didn't go too well, Bucky refusing to acknowledge it because it hasn’t affected his playing so far. _It doesn't affect your playing until it does, and then it's too late,_ Steve had told his best friend. The warning had fallen on deaf ears and Steve now worries that his _overworrying_ about Bucky's injury is now pushing him further in the direction of ignoring the problem and expecting it to just disappear.

 

The Stars hit the showers, bantering with each other, complaining about bullshit calls, and talking about earlier games of the season. As Steve rinses off the sweat and dirt, he doesn’t know how he feels about his first season as a major ball player. He has gotten plenty of acknowledgement and his life is changing rapidly. The Stars have done better this season than they had in the past seven years, the last time they had made the championships. Steve knew that with their current team, the Stars were projected to actually make it next year, something Steve will hope for. This is his dream team, a group of players he had followed ever since he was a kid, going to the games and collecting his favorite cards of all the famous Brooklyn players.

 

"All right everybody, quiet down and fall in!" Steve hears the call of their manager from the locker room. He shuts off his water, not realizing he had been the last one in the showers while lost in thought. He grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist before walking into the locker room, all his teammates in various state of undress. Even in front of a female manager, everyone is comfortable. Sure, there are still people on the team who liked to whisper about getting a chance to get more intimate with Peggy, and Steve can’t even blame them. He would never be as crude as some of the other players; He respects Peggy Carter far too much to objectify her like that. He looks up to her as a woman doing so well for herself in a male-dominated sport, but more than that he just respects her as a person. The Stars were in much worse shape before she came along, and now that she has been at the helm for the past few years, things are finally starting to look up.

 

"Fantastic end to the season boys," Peggy starts, clipboard in hand. "We can get more into all the things we need to change when training for the next season starts. For now, you lot deserve a night of celebration. I'll see you all tonight at Kurtzberg’s." She brushes out of the room then as the cheering continues. It's an uncharacteristically short ending statement from her, but Steve’s sure there will be plenty of speeches and discussion tonight at the bar.

 

It's a Stars tradition to go to Kurtzberg’s at the end of the season. Steve goes over to his locker, right next to Bucky's, and changes into his street clothes. "Going straight to Kurtz’s?" Bucky asks. "The boys are trying to rally together a carpool and we're running out of seats."

 

"I'm going to head back to the apartment for a few, but I'll catch up with you guys there," Steve replies, tossing his balled up towel into the bin on the other side of the locker room.

 

Bucky whistles. "With moves like that you better switch sports buddy. Magic Johnson’s gonna be old news with _you_ around.”

 

Steve bumps his shoulder against Bucky's as he heads for the door. "I'll see you at Kurtz’s."

 

"See ya there," Bucky waves.

 

The parking lot is still pretty swarmed with fans looking for players to sign autographs. Even though there's a fence keeping them away from the stadium, Steve still goes over to interact with them. He knows what it would've meant to him to have a ball, glove, or jersey signed by his favorite player at that age. It’s going to be such a trip if the MLB starts selling Stars jerseys with his name on it. For now, he’s perfectly happy signing merchandise of his old teams from the minors.

 

After he’s met with everyone who wanted to congratulate him on the win, Steve heads over to his motorcycle. He starts the engine of the Harley-Davidson before zooming off, heading back towards his and Buck's two-bedroom in the city.

 

There’s no immediate matter that Steve needs to attend to back at the apartment, he just wants some time to wind down. Pre-game interviews and meeting with fans always takes a lot out of him, and if he’s expected to be a sociable person tonight, he needs a second to regroup.

 

Steve puts on one of his favorite records, Attica Blues by Archie Shepp. Passionate tenor sax fills the small apartment as Steve starts digging around in the fridge for materials to make any sort of meal with. They really need to go grocery shopping since it seems like their current stash is mostly condiments at this point.

 

One ham and cheese sandwich later, Steve squeezes out the window and onto the fire escape to eat. He hears a soft meowing and looks down at the little scrap of a kitten that normally comes around all the tenants of their building begging for scraps. Bucky and Steve feed him the most, and had affectionately named him Patches.

 

"Hey, little guy," Steve greets, giving the tabby kitten a scratch on his head before ripping a piece of ham out of his sandwich and placing it on the metal grate. "Here you go."

 

The two companions eat in silence, Steve looking out over the city. He can see most of east Brooklyn from their seventh floor apartment. If he squints hard enough, he can even see the clump of old, deteriorating buildings that was once the block he had grown up on. Nostalgic thoughts of his mom start to set in, and it becomes harder to swallow each bite of his sandwich.

 

Patches receives one quick belly rub before Steve heads back inside, sure that the end of the season festivities were already in full swing. By the time he pulls up to the pub a half hour later, he can hear the boisterous crew inside even over the roar of his engine.

 

"Rogers!" Everyone cheers as he bashfully comes through the door, squeezing past the mingling groups. He can see Bucky waving him over to the bar, holding up a shot glass.

 

"Oh boy," Steve huffs under his breath. He can’t help but grin as he fits himself between his fellow teammates. He accepts the shot glass and cheerses along with everyone else, tossing it back. Steve pulls a slight face as he set the empty glass back on the bar. "Why is it always tequila with you, Barnes?"

 

"Is there any other way?" Bucky asks with a huge grin, his eyes already a little glazed over.

 

The next hour of the night passes by exactly as expected. Everyone is offering to buy Bucky and Steve beers as they’re the only new recruits this season, and who are these two to turn them down? Steve takes his drinks a lot slower than his friend, keeping in mind what a struggle the stairs at their apartment are going to be whenever they get back tonight.

 

Steve is playing darts with Bucky, Falsworth, and Dernier when they hear the stereo stop and turn to see Peggy standing atop one of the tables with a beer in her hand, shouting for everyone to quiet down.

 

"Now that you've all had a few drinks, I figured it was time for speeches and some praise for the players who deserve recognition after this season." This is met with more raucous cheering which Peggy has to silence again. "Alright, you animals, let me get to it or we'll be here all night."

 

"Good!" Bucky shouts, earning laughs and a pained look from the nearest bartender.

 

"I want to start with, of course, our incredible and fearless Captain Bradley—" Peggy allows the applause to break out again, smiling at their captain who's sitting in a nearby booth, accepting pats on the back. "As you’ve all probably heard by now, Isaiah will be retiring after next season—" Awws and boos erupt from the crowd. "—And even though we didn't make it to the World Series this season, we still finished at the top of the division and did much better than we have in years. Isaiah, you've led this team and raised them up by leaps and bounds and we all thank you for the years you've given as both a player and a captain," Peggy then signals for Isaiah to stand. He shakes his head as everyone starts banging on the tables, starting a steady chant of _"speech, speech, speech!"_

 

The man finally gives in, sliding out of the booth. "Alright, but I'm not climbing up on any of these tables, I'm too old for that." Steve chuckles along with everyone else as Isaiah holds up his tumbler. "I'll keep it short and sweet. It's been an honor playing for this team and only this team throughout my career, and y'all will never find a Captain like me. Here's to my final season."

 

Steve hollers and bangs on the tables like everyone else, holding his glass up in the air for not only his captain, but his idol.

 

Peggy starts speaking again, listing off all the names of the notable players this season and their accomplishments, Steve cheering and clapping for all of his fellow teammates. "...And lastly, our newcomers, Rogers and Barnes."

 

Steve and Bucky exchange surprised looks before turning their gaze back to Peggy who is smirking at them with her well-known, red-lipped smile. "The Stars are lucky to have scooped the two of you out of the Double-As when we did. In all my years of baseball, I don't know if I've ever seen two people play off each other as well as you two do. Welcome to the team and we hope you stay with us."

 

Steve clinks his glass with everyone within an arm’s reach, grinning so hard that he doesn’t even care when he feels some of the liquid slosh out onto his hand. He’s so proud in that moment and when he turns to his best friend, he swears he can see tears glistening in Bucky’s eyes.

 

"Don't cry on me, Barnes," he says, too low for anyone but the two of them to hear.

 

"Shut the hell up," Bucky responds with a laugh, taking a long drink from his glass.

 

Isaiah raises his voice again, holding his arm out to Peggy. "And of course, where would all of us be without Ms. Carter, _the best damn manager_ in the Majors?"

 

Steve cups his hands around his mouth as he cheers, aiding in Peggy receiving the loudest applause yet.

 

* * *

 

 

The night wears on, Steve and Bucky have split up to socialize in their own little groups. It isn’t just Stars players filling the bar. Wives, girlfriends, friends, and family are all joining in their celebration. Steve recognizes some of the other coaches and managers of other New York teams as well, though he isn't sure he would ever remember all the names getting thrown at him. One person with notable absence is Chester Phillips, the owner of the Stars. Phillips owned a much larger corporation and had bought the Brooklyn team quite some time ago. Once a very involved owner, he has become more of a recluse within the past few years, Steve having never even met the man in person. Any announcements from Chester were given to them from Peggy instead. There are rumors about Phillips having some grave illness that he’s keeping under wraps, but Steve tends not to participate in the gossip.

 

Steve slips from group to group, not staying in any one place for too long. Bucky is over at the pool table, showing who Steve assumes is some player's sister "proper form". Bucky happens to glance up as Steve stares, throwing his friend a wink as he tightens his arm around the girl’s shoulders. Classic Bucky.

 

"Steve," Peggy's voice pulls his attention. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

 

Alongside his manager is a man who looks to be in his late 40s, streaks of grey woven through his dark hair that is combed back from a handsome face. He adorns a suit that probably costs as much as Steve's first Brooklyn apartment (it probably cost more than his current apartment too). He’s carrying a short glass of brandy and judging by the red blush on his cheeks, it’s not the first glass he's had that night.

 

"This is Howard Stark—"

 

"Owner of the Malibu Irons and CEO of Stark Industries, of course," Steve interrupts once he finally puts a face to a name.

 

Howard's cool exterior distinguishes as soon as he reaches out to shake Steve's hand, rather vigorously. "It's _fantastic_ to finally meet you, Rogers. I'm a _huge_ fan."

 

Steve is so stunned that he allows Howard to shake his hand a little longer than socially acceptable. His fingers are a little sore once Howard finally drops his hand away. "You're a fan of mine?" he asks in disbelief. Stark is one of the biggest names in the U.S. baseball scene. Their production company has made some of the best gear since the sport started. In the past couple of decades, they have begun branching into other fields as well. Automobiles, clothing brands, standardized police weapons, power resources, interior design, you name it. One would have to be living under a rock to have not heard the Stark name, but in the baseball world it’s considered blasphemy.

 

"Of course, I've been watching you since the rookies," Howard laughs, a booming sound even in the loud bar. "I've been trying to meet you for _years._ Work has kept me busy, but I've always had an eye on you." He winks which makes Steve even more flustered than he was before. He’s still trying to process that _Howard Stark_ has known who he was since he started. "Your career, man, wow," Howard shakes his head. "You really climbed those ranks, rags to riches style! Three years in the rookies, one in Class A before you got signed to the Advanced league in the bat of an eyelash—at 19 no less—’79 you started playing for New Hampshire in the double-As—I was even there for a couple of the Eastern League games. Unfortunately, I was in Tijuana for business during the playoffs when you had that amazing short stop maneuver…”

 

Wow, this guy isn't joking or just trying to be polite; He's a _genuine_ fan. Steve catches Peggy's eye as Howard continues rambling about the ins and outs of his baseball career. She has a knowing gaze as she listens to Howard, amusement playing on her lips.

 

"…Honestly, I wasn't at all surprised when you went straight to major league from the double-As. I only wished you had graced the triples with your presence. I was in negotiations to buy you for the Irons for two seasons."

 

It’s still a strange concept to Steve that the Stark name doesn’t own a major league baseball team. There have always been rumors circulating that they were going to buy a major league team and completely rebrand them, but the Malibu Irons had been around far too long for that to be ethical. A lot of people claim that Howard doesn’t respect the sport because of the turn the company took since he'd been manning the helm, but Steve doesn’t see anything wrong with change and expanding to a new market. Too many people around this sport want to keep it old-fashioned, and while Steve would always cherish his memories of a beat up old leather glove and a wooden bat, he didn't see much wrong with the newer designs Howard has been trying to pitch to the league. It brings even more interest to a sport now at a peak in popularity.

 

"Speaking of the Irons, how is Tony doing?" Peggy asks, taking a sip of her own glass. "Does he ever plan on gracing the field with his presence?"

 

Howard laughs. "That cocky brat? Who knows with him. He's set to graduate from MIT next Summer, we'll see if he takes up any interest in playing after that."

 

"Is he still double majoring?"

 

"Yep, Master’s in physics and engineering. Talks about working on a doctorate after graduation too."

 

"I can't believe it. I feel like the last time I saw him I was still putting band-aids on his scraped up knees. I always thought he'd make a good ball player."

 

"I've been pushing him in that direction for years, Peg. He'd more likely try to overthrow me as CEO before he'd strap on his cleats again."

 

Steve smiles politely through the conversation, not knowing how to contribute otherwise. He can’t exactly picture an MIT student being athletic enough to make it in the big leagues. And Howard thinks his son would want to play professionally after that level of education? Steve's head spins just thinking about the years of schooling one would have to go through to achieve all that. The MLB isn't exactly looking to recruit people of Steve's age or older with no prior minor league experience.

 

"I'm going to get one last refill before I get back to the missus," Howard slurs, holding out his hand to Steve again. "Wonderful finally meeting you, Rogers. Let's keep in touch."

 

Steve has absolutely no idea what Howard would want to keep in touch with him for, and when glancing over to Peggy's arched eyebrow, he’s sure she doesn’t know either. "Great to meet you, it’s been a real honor," Steve replies.

 

Howard winks again and give Peggy a kiss on each cheek before squeezing through the crowd to get back to the bar, empty glass raised like a torch guiding his way. Steve stands awkwardly with Peggy for a moment, his eyes now trapped in the lingering foam on the bottom of his glass.

 

"Would you like to get some air, Steve?" Peggy asks, surprising him with that offer. He’s pretty much expected her to go find another group to socialize with, not single Steve out when she probably has plenty of people trying to shower her with praises tonight as well. Arguably as manager, Peggy holds the biggest hand in the Stars doing better as each season goes on.

 

The fall air had cooled significantly since the sun had gone down, but the alcohol is warming Steve enough that he is grateful for the slight chill as they step outside.

 

“How old are you again, Steve?” the question from Peggy is a surprise.

 

“Twenty-six, ma’am.”

 

"And do you smoke?" Peggy asks.

 

"No, ma'am," Steve responds quickly, almost wincing at how much of a youth he sounds like.

 

She just flashes him a smile. "Good," she replies, sounding pleased.

 

Silence hangs in the air for a few moments as the two lean against the brick wall of the bar, Peggy's hands in the pockets of her blazer. Steve has no idea how to initiate conversation, but luckily his manager takes the reins before he can fumble out any awkward small talk.

 

"How did you feel about your first season in the Majors? Was it all it cracked up to be?"

 

"Everything and more," Steve responds immediately. "Ever since we started in the Rookies, all we wanted was to stay local and play for Brooklyn. This season has been absolutely incredible for us."

 

Peggy is smiling at him, her dark eyes like melted chocolate. Steve almost has the nerve to blush if the alcohol isn’t already helping him in that department. "You spoke in plurals just now. I’m assuming the ‘we’ is you and Barnes."

 

Steve pauses for a moment before letting out a short laugh. "I didn't even realize— Yeah. We," he clears his throat, suddenly feeling very on the spot with how Peggy is looking at him. "It's always been the two of us since the beginning."

 

"Were you worried you two might ever get signed to different teams?"

 

"We did once. I turned down my spot on the Eagles to play in New Hampshire with Buck," Steve nods. "We always promised each other we'd be on the same team."

 

"What happens when you two become hot commodities and a bigger, richer team buys you out from under us?" Peggy asks, suddenly serious.

 

Steve looks at her worriedly. "Is that happening?"

 

Peggy’s smile returns. "No, not yet. You two are good, of course, but you're still in your probationary one year contract. The Stars don't even have to call you up to play for the next season if we choose not to..." she trails off then reads the nervous expression on Steve's face. "We will," she reassures him. "Don't worry about that. We definitely want to keep both of you." She pats him on the arm. "I better head back inside. I thought I'd get in your head a little since it seems like for now you're a staple of the team."

 

"Thank you," Steve responds. "I think I'll stay out here for a while longer."

 

Peggy nods. "Of course. I wouldn't hang out here for too long. I saw Barnes sidling up on Dugan's sister, and he might need you to back him up if he starts a brawl in there," she smirks before slipping back inside.

 

Steve appreciates the lengths Peggy goesto to get to know all the players. Ever since he started and felt like the manager didn't even look at him twice in the first few months of him being on the team, everyone else had nothing but good things to say about her. The Majors are just so different than the teams Steve has played for in the past. His relationships with previous managers and owners had felt so much more personal when the teams were smaller and the stakes were lower. It’s just something to sacrifice, he supposes. The Stars are still like a tight-knit family, and Steve is grateful to be a part of it. Getting sold off to another team against his will is the _last_ thing he wants.

 

With the clock ticking closer towards Last Call, and his tumultuous thoughts sobering him up, Steve decides it’s definitely time to go home. He needs to find Bucky first, knowing that he will probably want to hop on the back of Steve's motorcycle to get home. Pretty much as soon as he steps back into the bar, his friend is bumping into him. "Hey, I'm going home with Jessica. Didn't want to leave before I saw ya again," he slings an arm around Steve's shoulder. “I'll see ya tomorrow, yeah?"

 

Steve pats him on the back. "Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow. Jessica doesn't live with her brother does she?"

 

Bucky throws his head back in laughter. "If she does I'm in trouble," he glances over to their teammate who’s still immersed in a game of quarters on the opposite end of the bar. "I'm gonna get out while he's still distracted."

 

"Godspeed," Steve replies, giving Bucky a firm push towards the door. Now that he knows Buck is taken care of, Steve doesn’t feel bad about slipping out the back door and heading home.

 

Exhausted, Steve collapses onto his bed without even fully undressing. He’s still riding the high off the adrenaline from the drive, the unbelievable conversation he had with one of the most influential people in baseball, and the residual excitement of winning their final game of the regular season.

 

Even with all that excitement, what Peggy had mentioned offhand resonates with him. What happens if he does get sold? The Stars are on the lower end of financial prospects in the MLB. Players are sold off and traded all the time, no matter what the player themselves wants. His contract can already be set in stone when the next season starts and he won’t really have much say in negotiation. It will always be a possibility that lingers in the back of Steve's mind.

 

For now, their season is over, and Steve has a few months before he has to worry about the contract signings come December, maybe even January if the Stars aren’t sure about keeping him. Even though Steve has been counted as a “newcomer of note” by the media, a new player can come breezing in during the exhibition games and Steve will be forgotten, or worse, moved to another team. He’d rather be benched.

 

Steve thinks of the teams that will be playing for the World Series over the next month while he is officially in his off-season, a part of him wishing he can experience that. As unrealistic as it is for a first year player in the MLB to be lucky enough to sign onto a team that competes in the World Series, there’s always hope for next year. As long as he has Bucky at his side, nothing else really matters.

 

 

 

October, 1985

 

Peggy paces back and forth in front of the line-up of her players, checking the itinerary on her clipboard as she looks over the men. "Jones, fix your tie. If you can't do it yourself have Dernier fix it for you for _god's_ sake."

 

Gabe turns to Jaques sheepishly to let him reloop his tie. Steve double checks his own appearance, making sure nothing is amiss. He's never done a press event before. There's been the occasional short interview before games, but this is a much bigger deal.

 

He along with the five other top performers on the Stars that season are going to get in front of a group of reporters and talk about what it felt like to be going to the finals in the ALCS for the first time in an eight season drought.

 

All teams that make up the MLB are divided into two divisions. The National League is made up of the older, “senior teams”, while the “juniors” are in the American League. The Stars fit under this category, and are one of the top two teams from their season moving onto the Championship Series. The winner of that seven-game series will move onto the World Series to face off against the winner of the National League Championship.

 

Currently, the Stars and the Mockingbirds have three wins each tucked under their belts, and the series doesn’t end until that fourth win is cinched. It’s all coming down to this final game to determine who will move forward to fight to be World Series champions, and since the Stars had the superior season record, they had the home field advantage for this final game.

 

"Okay, it looks like they're all set out there," Peggy says, some of the tension leaving her shoulders right before she walks out onto the small stage set up for their statement.

 

"Good evening, everyone. Unfortunately, Chester Phillips couldn't make it tonight to moderate the questions, but I'll be here in his place. I'd like to introduce—"

 

"Where is Chester Phillips?" a reporter calls from the crowd. "Is his illness worse than what we were led to believe at the last statement made during the exhibition games?"

 

Peggy keeps her expression neutral. "That matter is not for discussion and we cannot make any more statements concerning Chester at this time. As I was saying, I'd like to introduce our top six players this season, whom the Stars and Brooklyn are all very proud of. Our current Captain, Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan, Jacques Dernier, James Montgomery Falsworth, Jim Morita, Steve Rogers, and James Buchanan Barnes."

 

Blood is rushing so loud in Steve's ears that he needs a nudge from Bucky before he realizes that Jim is already taking his seat. He quickly takes the steps up onto the stage without tripping, sitting down in his designated seat. They stare out at a sea of reporters who are all staring back, cameras and notebooks poised. Steve is uncomfortably aware of the microphone sitting in front of him, clearing his throat as far back from it as he possibly can.

 

"We'll start with overall questions from the papers first before we take questions for individual players," Peggy says. Hands shoot into the air and the questioning begins.

 

The panel of players take turns answering the cookie-cutter questions that they're all used to. How they feel about the season, if there was more pressure after how close they were to reaching this point last season, how rigorous the training was as they fell under a new, stricter coach, how much pressure they felt being this close to win the American League, those kinds of inquiries.

 

Peggy had gone over with Steve earlier that day the best way to participate in this press event. He's the only one who hasn't done a junket like this before, even Bucky having attended this same panel last year. They all contribute to answering the questions, Steve trying to jump in at a good time with an original thought that the reporters can scribble down on their note pads. His one fear going into this was that he would do nothing but echo the other player's sentiments, sounding like a parrot in front of all these people. He's definitely speaking the least amount out of everyone at the table, but he hopes he at least doesn't look like he's about to pass out.

 

Once individual questioning starts, most of them are aimed towards Dugan as he's the new Captain of the team. Steve misses Isaiah, but Dugan was always there, a supportive right hand man. There was no surprise when Dugan was announced as the Stars' new captain, a legacy he proudly took on.

 

"No, I don't think any of this would've been possible without everything Isaiah had given the team for the past twenty-two years," Dugan answers. “Everything I've done this season I have to thank him for. We're all doing it for him, right boys?"

 

They all nod their sentiments.

 

"Hi, Lori Marlon from the New York Times, I have a question for Steve Rogers."

 

Steve sits a little straighter in his seat as she addresses him directly.

 

"This is your first time speaking on behalf of the team. Nervous?"

 

Steve coughs. "That obvious?" Chuckles emanate through the crowd.

 

"You started playing in the minor league at 15, and now are sitting next to a team going towards going to the World Series. Is this where you thought you'd be?"

 

Steve takes a moment to turn over the thoughts in his head before he leans down towards the mic. "Playing baseball professionally for the past thirteen years has been an absolute dream of mine. I grew up in Brooklyn as a huge Stars fan and the fact that I'm sitting here right now in front of you all is still surreal," he smiles comfortably, Bucky rubbing his shoulder.

 

Another reporter stands up, looking at Steve. "Even though you've only played for the Stars for a couple seasons now, your popularity is enormous amongst fans. What do you think it is about you that makes you such a fan favorite?"

 

This question flusters Steve much more than the last one did. He glances towards Peggy who's giving him a patient look. She takes a deep breath, motioning for Steve to copy her.

 

After one long inhale and exhale, Steve looks back to the reporter. "Honestly, I didn't know people liked me that much," he chuckles, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck. "It's humbling to even hear that I'm a fan favorite to people. I try to keep integrity in the game and do my part to help the team first and foremost. I think people can just relate to the steps I've taken to get where I am today. There's sometimes dirty or corrupt players in the sport; I'm just trying to keep things honest."

 

"Are you referencing teams like the Malibu Irons and namely the behavior of newest player Ton—"

 

"Just a reminder that reporters aren't meant to speak until their pre-approved questions are called on," Peggy quickly interrupts. Steve glances around the shifting crowd and lets Peggy call on the next reporter.

 

There is suddenly a lot more focus on Steve now. It gets to the point that Peggy has to field out a few of the more personal questions, reminding the media to stick to the parameters set beforehand. Steve isn't sure why his current marital status is that important to the papers, but he supposed not everyone gathered were from reputable sources.

 

Steve rubs his eyes as they walk off the stage, the bright flashes of the cameras leaving sunspots in his vision. The papers were probably going to be full of group shots of the Stars’ lead players with Steve blinking like an idiot. He feels a warm hand on his back and turns to see Peggy.

 

"You did a really great job, Steve," Peggy smiles fondly at him. "You've always done great under pressure."

 

"Thank you," Steve replies with a blush. Over the past three years of playing underneath Peggy’s watchful eye, the two have grown close. They regularly get drinks and meals together or stay in the stadium long after practice has ended just to chat, to the point of teasing from almost everyone on the team. Bucky is probably the only one who doesn’t tease Steve about his relationship with their manager because he knows Steve better than that.

 

It’s strictly professional anyway. Not that Steve isn’t attracted to Peggy romantically; No one in their right mind wouldn’t have fallen for the woman after spending enough time with her. She’s everything a man can hope for. Not only was she beautiful on the outside, but the woman emanated strength. She’s the most capable and caring woman Steve has known in his adult life, reminding him of his own mother in a way: hard when she needed to be (which was often), yet does everything with her entire heart. Maybe in another world there could be something more between them, but any torch Steve might’ve held for the woman was distinguished rather quickly upon realizing they were both far too busy for a relationship.

 

“Okay,” Peggy claps. “You boys get changed and head down to the field to get warmed up.” She checks her watch. “I want everyone nice and loose before Coach Hodge puts you all through the ringer. We’re at T-Minus six hours and thirty-seven minutes before first pitch, let’s get a move on.”

 

To most people, six and a half hours of prep time for anything may seem excessive. Since getting drafted, Steve learned very quickly that this was just the way of baseball. Of course, an entire day of practice leading up to the game isn’t just nonstop drills. There’s plenty of breaks, one-on-one time with the coach, cool-down time an hour before the game begins, and crosstalk about possible strategies and plays in the locker room beforehand.

 

Everything is riding on this game. Steve keeps that thought in mind as he changes from his nice suit into track pants, a t-shirt, and his warm-up cleats. They’ve come so far in the three short seasons that Steve has been playing for the Stars, and he can’t imagine ever playing for anyone else. He owes everything to this team, this city. He feels a duty to stick with them, win or lose.

 

“Barnes, I really think you should at least let me take a look—”

 

“I told you a thousand times, Erskine, I’m fine.”

 

Steve hears the familiar voices before the owners of them come around the corner into the locker room. “Both Hodges and Carter don’t want you playing today, you know that right?” The team’s PT continues despite Bucky still walking away from him.

 

“Quit haranguing me, Doc, you told me _and_ Hodges _and_ Peggy last week that I’m clear to play!” Bucky is almost laughing at this point, throwing Steve an amused look as he comes to stand next to him, tossing his own duffel bag into his locker. “Go on, tell him, Steve.”

 

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You know I’m on the good doctor’s side, Buck. If he wants to look at your elbow, I think you should let him.”

 

Bucky pats him on the arm and salutes to Erskine before dodging past him to get to the tunnel leading out to the field. The two of them watch him go with a conjoined sigh, Erskine throwing his hands up. “If the kid wants to throw his career away, then I have no choice but to let him.”

 

“Don’t take it personally,” Steve sighs, oiling up his glove. “He’s been stubborn about his elbow since we were kids. You’re not just preaching to the choir, Doc—” Steve tosses the oil back in before shutting his locker and brushing past the man. “You’re preaching to the whole damn congregation.”

 

Steve and Bucky practice their throws together, both at a standstill and moving. It’s surreal, thinking how this isn’t all that different from twenty years ago when it was just the two of them and a ball.

 

“Bring that head of yours back down from space, Rogers!” he hears Hodges yell from off to the side.

 

He isn’t caught reminiscing for the rest of their warm ups, using his break time to joke around with Bucky or Jack. Dugan alternates between talking off to the side with Hodges and sitting in the dugout, chatting with whichever players are on break, gauging his team’s emotional levels going into the game. The six hours fly by and before he knows it, they’re lined up in the tunnel post-Peggy Carter Pep Talk, Steve fifth from the front. He’s set to start as a third baseman, with the possibility of subbing in as a shortstop during the latter innings depending on his alternate’s performance more than his own. Bucky is slated in center field, a position where he’s really prone to shine, a real knockout player when it comes to getting balls back into the infield.

 

It’s an overcast day, but the clouds are fluffy and light with no promise of rain. Steve and Bucky are both starting, heading to their designated spots since the visiting team would be batting first.

 

The Stars barely outrank the Mockingbirds as far as number of wins went for the season thus far, but that didn’t totally count them out. The team from Massachusetts was no joke, and where they may lack in defense, they knew how to get runs and steal bases like no other team.

 

For the top of the first inning, they clearly aren’t holding back. They’re directing their balls strategically, biding their time with a single and a double, trying to load the bases for their best chances at getting a run. Steve gets an out on their fourth batter, and Jaques is quick to follow by catching a ball that was headed for the back corner of the stadium. The Mockingbirds only get one run in before their next player gets tagged and it’s time to switch places.

 

Steve is slotted fourth, the coveted cleanup spot. Bucky is further down the batting lineup, but Steve suspected that was because Hodge has been trying to be careful about his elbow. The pressure is on as Steve watches the three players before him step up to bat. One by one, they each manage a single, and once it's Steve’s turn to step up, he looks out to see loaded bases and a crowd on the edge of their seats.

 

Steve takes a deep breath and looks back to the dugout where Bucky's sitting. His best friend gives him a single nod that Steve returns before readying his stance. It's still the first inning, but just because this isn't a pivotal moment in one of the later innings doesn't mean Steve can't set a bar that will keep the team optimistic moving forward.

 

_TWANG_

 

The entire stadium erupts in joy as the ball sails into the stands, Steve holding a fist up in victory as he takes to a quick jog, his victory lap around the diamond. The three batters before him plaster themselves against him in a quick celebration hug before moving off the field, Steve setting the score 4-1.

 

Unfortunately, the rest of the game isn’t as picture perfect. It takes another inning for the Mockingbirds to recover, but the Stars find themselves at the bottom of the fourth now a point behind. They don’t get a single run, and that kind of inning can be detrimental to a team’s morale.

 

Both Steve and Bucky come to the edge of the field for the short, mid-inning break. The Mockingbirds had only gotten one more run in before getting their third out thanks to the pair. “Good playing, boys, let’s keep that up because I don’t wanna pull you just yet,” Hodge tells them, handing them both water bottles. “Barnes, how’s the arm? Saw you flinching out there, I ain’t afraid to take you off, but you tell me now if you can make it through the game.”

 

“I’m good, Coach,” Bucky answers without any hesitation, much to Steve’s dismay. Steve waits until Hodge walks away before he grips the sleeve of Bucky’s jersey.

 

“What do you mean you’re _good_? Buck, you gotta be careful—”

 

Bucky cuts him off with a groan, gently pushing his hand away. “Steve, how many times do we have to go through this? This is a huge game, and you’ve seen how many outs I’ve assisted today. I’m sure Galang would do just fine in my place, but we _can’t_ lose this one. Not when we’ve gotten this close.”

 

“It’s not going to matter how hard you push yourself if we win this game and you injure yourself before we even get to the Series,” Steve sighs in frustration. “We can afford for you to sit this one out.”

 

Bucky isn’t looking at him now, staring out at the field with a furrowed brow. “Maybe you can.”

 

Before Steve can ask for some elaboration, Bucky pushes himself away from the wall, heading over to where Dugan is standing. “What’s Barnes’ deal?” Jack asks, still fresh having just gone on as pitcher.

 

“He’s just anxious like the rest of us,” Steve answers tensely, effectively ending that conversation. The truth is, Steve doesn’t know exactly what Bucky’s “deal” is. His bad elbow had been a sensitive talking point since as long as they had played baseball together, and while Steve knew his best friend to be unreasonably stubborn at times, he had to put faith in him and pray that Bucky knew his own body better than anyone else.

 

The Stars are up to bat again, and Steve and Bucky are too far apart in the batting rotation to have any real conversation. Bucky gets a double, the next two batters helping him along to slide into home. There’s some contesting over whether or not he was tagged out, the crowd and players alike growing anxious. Brooklyn needs every run they can get at this point. Hodge is arguing tensely with the ref before the play is deemed good, earning cheers and boos from both sides.

 

“Good job getting that run,” Steve says once Bucky comes over to the dugout, wiping some dirt off his pants.

 

“Thanks,” Bucky cuffs his shoulder, letting him know there are no hard feelings. The Stars get one more run in before getting their third out, tying it up yet again. At the top of the sixth inning, still no progress has been made. Steve is trying his best to focus, but he keeps finding his eyes drawn over to observe Bucky. He’s playing hard, extending himself to get those outs they need. The Mockingbirds have switched it up from their bunting method, now challenging the outfielders, specifically center field.

 

They need one more out before it's back to the top of Brooklyn’s batting lineup, and Steve knows they’ll be able to get at least a couple of runs in if he can just get up to the plate. The next batter steps up, his stance locked and determined. Steve watches as Jack contemplates what kind of pitch to throw him, silently communicating with the catcher before pitching him a changeup.

 

It’s not enough to catch the player off guard, his bat connecting solidly with the ball before it sails into center field yet again. Bucky had fallen back a fair amount of feet in preparation for a much further hit, but he’s booking it as the ball arcs back down towards the ground. “No, no, Buck,” Steve whispers worriedly under his breath. “Just let it roll and get it to first.” He's clearly trying to catch the ball before the ground does, but he's just too far. He has two options from there, either out the batter or try and get the ball to Steve or home depending on what the runner on the second base did. “Let it roll and get it to first,” Steve is still repeating like a mantra as a runner comes his way. He readies himself to receive the ball, but he can tell based on the timing and the Mockingbirds' desperate plays that this runner is going to go all the way to home.

 

And Bucky’s going to try and get him out to prevent that run from happening.

 

He doesn’t get to the ball in time to get the batter out, diving forward to catch it on its first bounce. Steve watches at Bucky twists his body around, his arm arcing back and lashing forward with all the power he had to get the ball in to home. Steve has the only set of eyes in the entire stadium that doesn’t follow the path of the ball to see where it ends up, his gaze locked on Bucky’s face as it twists in pain.

 

Steve watches his best friend crash to the ground, carried by the momentum of his throw. “Bucky!” he immediately sprints over to him, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, drowning out the sounds around him. He has no idea how the game is unfolding, falling to his knees next to Bucky who’s now on his back, clutching his arm.

 

A time out gets called and medics quickly rush out onto the field. “Buck, Buck, don’t move,” Steve frantically hovers over him, unsure of what to do. He’s gently urged aside by the athletic trainers as they examine Bucky’s arm. Blood is rushing loudly in his eardrums. He can hear Bucky’s voice in an echo, telling them it hurts to move it and no, he can’t bend it that way.

 

“Let me help him,” Steve requests once he gets his wits about him, the medics now helping Bucky to his feet, placing his arm in a sling to keep it from being moved too much.

 

“Rogers!” Hodge is coming onto the field now, placing a hand on Steve’s chest. “Inning’s not done yet, we’re up to bat. Now get back in the lineup and leave Barnes to us.”

 

“I have to go with him,” Steve urged, trying to push past his coach.

 

“Rogers, I swear to the sweet lord above if you don’t get back into position, I will _bench_ you for the rest of your _life_ ,” his coach barks, giving him a shove back towards the bases. “Let the doctors handle Barnes!” he jogs to catch up with Bucky and the medics, putting a hand on the player’s back as they disappear into the stadium.

 

A whistle blows and Steve still doesn’t move for a few moments as the Stars move off the field and the Mockingbirds begin to take their places. “Steve… Hey, Steve,” Dugan gets his attention with an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, you’re almost on deck. Keep your head in it, kid, I’ll get Hodge to sub you out but let’s get shit done first, okay?”

 

Steve nods shakily, letting his captain lead him back over to the sidelines, switching his mitt out for batting gloves. He can’t get the image out of his head of Bucky falling to the ground—the sound of that sickening _snap_ when he overextended his elbow. Is it a muscle tear? Could it be worse than that? What if Bucky is out for the rest of the season? Or the rest of his life?

 

“Rogers! You’re up!”

 

Steve shakily makes his way to the home base, looking out at the field to try and figure out what's going on. Dugan is right. He can’t let this take him completely out of the game. Bucky wouldn’t want that for the team either. He had gotten that third out for the team, and Steve is going to do his best to make that out mean something.

 

Falsworth and Morita are both on base, first and second. So they both couldn’t manage more than singles, and they don’t have any outs yet. This will be easy.

 

Steve puts all the power he can into his swing, feeling his bat whiff through the air.

 

“Strike one!”

 

“Damn it,” Steve huffs under his breath, wiping a little sweat off his brow. He needs to focus. Don’t worry about Bucky.

 

“Strike two!”

 

Steve has to drown out the sounds of the crowd, shaking his head. He can’t let himself get psyched out by the pitcher now. He watches the man carefully, trying to determine what he was going to do next. Steve doesn't want to go for a bunt just to land a hit. When he pitched the third ball, Steve held his position.

 

“Ball!”

 

Just as he thought. Outside of the strike zone. Steve looks up at the clock, watching the time tick on as he readied for the next pitch. No more fooling around, now.

 

His next swing finally connects with the ball, Steve watching as it sails further and further, higher and higher, disappearing into the stands. He tosses the bat aside and immediately takes off, sprinting around the bases rather than taking his time to celebrate a home run. As soon as his feet touch down on home again, he runs off the field, brushing past Dugan and his other teammates.

 

“Steve, wait!” he hears his captain calling after him, already disappearing around the corner as he makes his way to their locker room.

 

He can hear a group of voices all talking at once as he comes around the corner, entering the secondary room where players were treated due to any injury in-game.

 

“You can’t feel it _at all_ ?”

  
  
“That’s what I fucking _said_ , Doc.”

 

“It’s third degree, it has to be.”

 

“Keep his arm stable we need to put him in a cast immediately then take him to the hospital.”

 

“Numb him anyway, just in case.”

 

“That could just inflame it further, we can’t risk that at this point.”

 

“Steve,” Bucky looks past the small group of medics that have gathered around him, all of them turning in surprise. They're so preoccupied they hadn’t heard Steve enter.

 

“You can’t be here,” Dr. Erskine says, his voice strained as he walks over to block Steve from coming further into the room.

 

“Like hell,” Steve argues, the orthopedist not doing much to stand in his way despite the protocol he’s meant to follow. Everyone knows how close the two of them are. Steve is immediately at Bucky’s side, looking down at his left arm. It looks hyperextended, the skin swollen and already beginning to spot with bruises.

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Bucky says quietly, sounding anything but convincing.

 

“Needs a little oil?” Steve asks bitterly, meeting his best friend’s gaze. There’s guilt written across it in prose.

 

“We need to go ahead and take him to the hospital,” Dr. Erskine says, putting his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You can come if you get permission from Hodge.”

 

“Already got it,” Steve replies, leaving no room for arguments.

 

Steve doesn’t find out the outcome of the game until hours later when he finally leaves Bucky’s hospital room and finds the waiting area chock full of the Stars. They won by the skin of their teeth, and everyone insists it had everything to do with Steve’s home run changing the morale of the game. He wants to celebrate, he does, but his future seems bleak with the person he started this journey with unable to even move his arm past his shoulder.

 

It’s a UCL rupture, third degree. The ligament in his elbow has completely snapped, and the doctors aren’t optimistic in reconstructive surgical repair. It’ll be a few more days of tests before they even know if it’s possible.

 

Even since they were kids, Steve and Bucky had been able to talk to each other about anything and everything, but now, it seems as if they’re both at a loss for words. There’s no point in scolding Bucky with I-Told-You-Sos or trying to look on the bright side. Best case scenario: the surgery goes smoothly and Bucky goes through enough rehabilitation to gain basic use of his arm, but never be able to throw a ball again. Worst case scenario: He can never use his arm again. Full stop.

 

Not exactly much to be chatty about.

 

Practices resume and Steve’s teammates kindly refrain from commenting on how his heart’s just not in it right now. Even Hodge gives him a break for once. Any free time Steve has, he’s at the hospital with Bucky. Most nights he falls asleep sitting upright in the just-too-small armchair in his hospital room, but occasionally a nurse comes by to kindly kick him out.

 

“How’s practice going?” Bucky asks one day when Steve brings him lunch, giving him a break from the bland hospital pudding and applesauce that are remarkably and concerningly close in texture and taste.

 

Steve shrugs. “It’s fine, I guess.” They haven’t talked ball in the entire four days since the accident. “I’m playing like crap, obviously.”

 

“What do you mean?” Bucky’s frowning at him not in confusion, but in frustration. “You never slack during practice, don’t start on my account.”

 

Steve sighs through his nose, watching Bucky pick the ham off his slice of pizza. Steve doesn't know why he always lets him order it if he hates the stuff. “You know how I play without you. Shall we revisit the great Bucky’s Home with the Flu Debacle of 1976? I didn’t hit a single ball the whole game and missed about six outs.”

 

Bucky doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to joke for once. “Yeah, but that was just Class A. This is the World fucking Series, Steve. You can’t just give up now because I’m not playing. How the hell is that fair to the rest of the team? To _Brooklyn_?”

 

“Buck, you know I can’t do this without you--”

 

“That’s bullshit, Steve!” Bucky interrupts, the right hand of his fist clenching. “Do you know how many people in the world get the chance to play in the World Series? Hell, not even that many Major League assholes get to make it to that game. And you’re just going to throw all that away for- for what?! For me?! Do you think that’s what I want for you?” Steve is shocked into silence by his best friend’s outburst, watching as angry tears well up in his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he saw Bucky cry. “The only reason I’m sitting here with my arm all blown to hell is because _I_ didn’t want to play without _you_.”

 

Steve lets that settle in over the silence. “Buck… you could’ve… You could’ve--”

 

“But I didn’t,” Bucky wipes angrily at the tears before they can slip too far down his cheeks. “I didn’t, because I thought I couldn’t. And I didn’t want to drag you down with me, but here we are anyway,” he shakes his head bitterly, looking down at the little pile of ham cubes on his tray. “I’m not going to give you some cheesy garbage that I’m always with you in your heart or whatever, but you don’t need me to be there on the field with you to be a good ball player, you idiot. You’re doing this for both of us next week, okay? And you’re going to play amazingly, and you’re going to fucking _win_.”

 

He leaves no room for argument, and as of cued by the pause, a doctor opens the door and comes in. “Afternoon, Mr. Barnes. The results of your last consultation are in.” His eyes dart over to Steve who quickly stands up to leave.

 

“Stay,” Bucky says, reaching out to grab Steve by the hand. “Anything you have to tell me, he can know too.” He flashes Steve a quick smile, and everything starts to feel almost okay again.

 

They’re going to be able to go through the reconstructive surgery, using some ligaments from Bucky’s leg. A lot of the muscle tissue in Bucky’s elbow is still extremely damaged, and because of the extent of the injury, it’s still uncertain if he’ll ever be able to play baseball properly ever again. It will be at least two years of physical therapy to even regain basic motor functions.

 

Steve can’t get a read on Bucky’s face while he gets the news. He’s not exactly happy, but it’s better than nothing, and for now that will have to be enough.

 

“Get out of here, Steve,” Bucky sighs from his bed later that night, an hour or two after Steve had already thought he fell asleep. He looks up from the sketch pad he’s doodling in, catching the vague outline of Bucky’s profile in the light of the lamp. “Treat yourself to a bed for once, you’ve got practice in the morning.”

 

“I can stay,” Steve yawns, wiping at the tears that gather in his eyes in result.

 

“Just go,” Bucky laughs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Steve stands, stretching his arms over his head. “What time’s surgery tomorrow?”

  
  
“Seven a.m. Doc said no visitors until three though.”

  
  
“Then I’ll see you at two,” Steve responds, catching the brief grin on Bucky’s face in the dark.

 

“Steve?” Bucky calls softly when he gets a knob on the door. “Good luck next week. I know I’ll see you before the series starts, but… I just wanted to tell you now.”

 

Steve smiles. “You’ll be with me. In my heart or whatever.”

  
  
“Alright, get the hell outta here.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky’s right. They take the World Series.

 

It’s even easier than the playoffs, in a way. The Stars lose the first game to the Oakland Panthers, but then follow up with four wins in a row, ending the Fall Classic at five total matches.

 

The victory couldn’t feel more hollow to Steve, despite earning the Stars the last, winning run in the final inning of game five. They had been tied for the last two innings of the game, two outs in, and Steve hit a home run. He had done it. It would be historically known as a momentous World Series moment, something any baseball player would hope for. But it doesn’t matter, because out of all the teammates piling onto Steve as the crowd goes wild, Bucky is sitting in a box somewhere.

 

Following the 2-3-2 formula of where games were played in the World Series, Steve is unfortunately stuck in Oakland for the night, the last thing he wants. He moves off the field in a haze, ignoring the people calling out his name. He doesn’t want the crowds and the celebration and the noise, he just wants Bucky.

 

The crowds and press begin to overwhelm Steve as he tries to remember where Peggy told him they would be watching from. There are baseballs to be signed and reporters with microphones and it’s all too much. The rest of his team is still on the field, surrounded by their own sea of people dying to get a glimpse of the World Series winners. Steve is about to give up completely until he feels a hand grab firmly to the back of his jersey. He whirls around quickly, relieved when it’s just Bucky and not some crazed fan. They grab each other by the wrists and force their way back through the crowd, Steve’s eyes trained on the brace that Bucky’s other arm is currently wearing.

 

Bucky is apparently in a good enough headspace to navigate them away from the crowds and out of the stadium, security stopping anyone from following them out to one of the fenced off exits.

 

“Steve? Steve, are you okay?”

 

Steve has to shake himself out of it, still holding onto Bucky’s arm. He drops his hand away, nodding. “Yeah, sorry. That was… that was a lot." There's a tightness in his chest that's beginning to alleviate now that Bucky is standing in front of him, Steve now feeling a little ridiculous for freaking out. He's used to the crowds by now, and he certainly knows what to expect coming off a momentous win like that, but he had just felt so lost.

 

“Hey,” Bucky grips his shoulder, giving him a little shake. “What’s say we get out of here? You’re not looking like you’re in the mood to celebrate.”

 

Steve wishes he can say yes. “No, I should… _We_ should be with the rest of the team right now.”

 

“Are you sure?” Bucky frowns. “I mean, of course _I_ want to go out and get shit-faced because we have an excuse to, but no one’s going to blame you if you don’t want to come out tonight.”

 

He appreciates that Bucky is there to look out for his well-being and offer him the out he wanted. It isn't right to be selfish, not right now. He has an entire team of players who he shouldn't shun during what is supposed to be one of the greatest moments of their collective careers just because he can't share it with one other person. Bucky will be with him tonight, not to mention the fact that he’ll be celebrating just as raucously as he would if he had been on the field today.

 

They wait outside of the team buses, having a little alone time for Steve to cool down and finally let himself ride the high of his incredible last home run. Peggy's going to chew him out for not being around for press, but he's sure she'll shove him in front of every camera at every opportunity once things have calmed down.

 

Eventually, the rest of the Stars filter out of the stadium, immediately glomming onto Steve to congratulate him. It's a little easier to deal with all the attention, especially when Bucky keeps to his wings. They immediately head off to the first bar that Dugan and the other boys had scoped out in the previous days during the series, making their way from pub to pub. Each one becomes more crowded than the last, crowds following them no matter where they go. They may be in enemy territory, but even some Oakland die-hards are just excited to be a part of the festivities.

 

Steve takes on the role of babysitter for the night, handing every single drink he's given off to Bucky. He knows that his best friend needs it more than he does, and Steve doesn’t want him to feel any edge of bitterness that he couldn’t help the Stars with this history-making win. It just isn't fair, and Bucky is a lot better about not letting that show than Steve is.

 

“Hey,” he slurs loudly into Steve’s ear as he slings an arm around his shoulder, leaning into him for support. They just got off the elevator on the floor of their room, Steve helping Bucky down the hallway the best he can. “We’re gon’ play together again. I just know it.”

 

Steve smiles tightly, fumbling with the key before getting them into the room. He lets Bucky collapse onto the bed, making sure he's careful not to land on his bad arm. “Until the end of the line, right?” Steve asks as he removes Bucky’s shoes for him before crawling into his own bed. He looks over at the outline of Bucky’s form in the darkness, realizing he's already passed out. “’Til the end of the line,” Steve repeats to himself before letting Bucky’s steady breathing lull him to his own fitful rest.

 

 

 

December, 1985

 

The snow is falling in large flakes, drifting lazily down to stick to any available surface. A couple of inches have built up in the parking lot since the snow plows came through that morning, the white surface crunching lightly beneath Steve’s boots as he gets out of his old beater car. One of these days he’ll fix it up. Maybe next Summer if he ever remembers to take it out of the garage.

 

The stadium is eerily quiet this time of the year. Less players are taking advantage of the facilities, enjoying their break before Spring training starts back up again. There are some players that Steve knows won’t be back here at all, signings having already begun. Steve’s contract had been locked down last year for the foreseeable future in his baseball career. Some players may not want to be trapped on one team for too long, especially if they’re in high demand like Steve, but he held loyalty to the Stars. They had been his team since he was a boy and the thought of only staying on for a year or two then going elsewhere based on dollar signs alone didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. Brooklyn is his home, and this is his team.

 

His footsteps echo as he walks around the stadium, passing through the deserted weight lifting room. He can hear the familiar set of voices before he even opens the door leading into the connected facilities.

 

“C’mon, Barnes, I know you have it in you. Five more.”

 

“I _can’t_. Let’s just take a break already.”

 

“You can get a break after five more rotations. You’ve been doing a great job.”

 

“Don’t patronize me; I’ve been doing a shit job.”

 

“There’s no such thing as a shit job in recovery, Barnes.”

 

“That sounds like something you tell your patients who are doing a shit job, Doc.”

 

Steve knocks on the door as he enters, both Erskine and Bucky turning to face him. “Ah, an audience to witness my failure,” Bucky says sarcastically, sinking back into the cushioned chair he's sitting in. Steve can tell Buck is more frustrated than he’s trying to let on.

 

He's been pretty good these past few weeks about not lashing out at everyone trying to help him. His physical therapy training with Dr. Erskine is slow-going, but going all the same. For a while, it was impossible for even Steve to try and keep him rational about the situation, but he eventually came around. For the first few times, Steve would just drop him off and pick him up, but lately Bucky has allowed him to come in towards the tail end of each session.

 

“Go on, impress him,” Dr. Erskine said, nodding in Steve’s direction. “You’re already doing an extra set of every exercise since the last time Rogers was here. Just take your time and show him how much you’ve improved.”

 

Bucky is still glaring at the wall, but he eventually takes a deep breath and starts to rotate his arm. Dr. Erskine is holding it gingerly at the wrist and elbow, keeping it as straight as it can currently bend as he twists his forearm slowly, back and forth. Steve can see his arm is shaking, but he gets through all five rotations before Erskine allows him to put the brace back on. “See? You’re almost up to a full ninety degrees. Isn’t that good, Steve?”

 

“Yeah,” he immediately jumps in, picking Bucky’s jacket off a balance beam so he can help the man into it. “I mean, last week you could only get it to about forty-five, right?”

 

“I’ll be at one-eighty in no time,” Bucky drawls, rolling his eyes as he slides his good arm into the sleeve. “See, guys? I can say numbers too.”

 

“Same time next week, boys?”

 

“We’ll see you then, Doc. Thanks again,” Steve helps Bucky button his coat up over his arm that’s tucked against his side. He can’t quite get full movement on it to dress himself past tank tops.

 

Steve sighs once they’re out of earshot. “You’ve gotta be more positive, Buck. He’s doing his best to help you. Give the man an inch, at least.”

 

Bucky snorts. “Easy for you to say. It’s not exactly like he’s all sunshine and rainbows about where I’m gonna come out when everything’s said and done.”

 

It’s quiet for a few moments as they walk, a sadness creeping in and hanging over the pair. “Maybe you’ll be okay in a couple seasons,” Steve eventually says, ignoring the quiet sigh he hears from beside him. “I’m serious. I mean, maybe you’ll recover before our contracts are even up and you won’t even have to worry about trying to get resigned.”

 

Steve expects another fatalistic and dismissive comment, but Bucky flashes a confused look instead. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Well, I guess I don’t know the logistics of it all,” Steve admits. “Just trying to see the silver lining here. Did Peggy mention any kind of clause that says the contract stays in place even if there's an injury? I mean, they’re still paying for the treatment and the surgery since it happened before season’s end, so maybe you’re still--” Steve realizes he’s alone, turning around to see Bucky had stopped about fifteen paces ago.

 

“Steve…” Bucky is frowning again, but this time it seems empathetic. “My contract is up. It’s been up.”

 

It’s Steve’s turn to be confused now. “What are _you_ talking about?”

 

“My contract was only for a year,” Bucky says slowly. “You didn’t know?”

 

Steve is too shocked to respond for a moment. They had never explicitly talked about their contracts with each other, but Steve was under the impression from Phillips, Peggy, and almost everyone on the team they were being treated as a package deal.

 

But they had only signed Bucky on for one season.

 

“Start the car for me, I’ll be right back,” Steve presses his car keys into Bucky’s hand before breaking off into a jog, passing right by the exit doors of the stadium.

 

“Steve, c’mon!” He hears Bucky shout. “Where are you going?”

 

Steve ignores him and storms down the hallway towards Peggy's office, not even sure if she’s here today. He rounds the corner and can spot his manager through her slightly cracked door, seated behind her desk, talking on the phone. She's smiling and laughing at something the person on the other line is saying, but that doesn't stop Steve from barging into her office.

 

"Is what Bucky told me true?" He demands as he flies into the room.

 

Peggy stares at him in shock for a moment before composing herself, her finger twisting in the cord of the phone. "I'm going to have to call you back, dear. Yes, goodbye." She hangs up the phone and stands up from her desk. "Steve, what nerve do you have to come storming into the office when I'm on a personal phone call with my nephew—"

 

"Is it true?" Steve asks again, not caring what kind of phone call he interrupted. "About Bucky?"

 

Peggy sighs through her nose. "Shut that door behind you," she says quietly before sinking into her chair. "Sit down." Steve follows her instruction. They stare each other down for a few moments before Peggy speaks again. "Barnes. What about him?"

 

Steve's hands curl into fists on the arms of the chair. "Was his contract only for a year?"

 

"I'm not able to discuss other players' contracts with anyone—"

 

"Don't give me that crap, Peg!" Steve interrupts, biting down on his lip after his outburst. "Please— Just— I don't understand."

 

"What don't you understand, Steve? Surely it's something you can express without raising your voice at me," Peggy adds coldly.

 

"I'm sorry." Steve takes a deep breath. "When it was time for contract signing, even when we talked about it leading up to that, you seemed to make it very clear that you wanted Buck and me for the long term, and you wanted us together."

 

Peggy hums and gives a nod. "Go on."

 

Steve is almost at a loss for words. Surely she understands what he's getting at. "Why was my initial contract for four seasons and Bucky's was only for one?"

 

"Because that's what Chester wanted," Peggy answers simply. "What's the issue here, Steve? You feel _betrayed?_   _Lied to_ , even? Did I ever make a promise to you that I would be signing you and your friend for the same amount of seasons?"

 

"No, but—"

 

"Did I not warn you that it wasn't entirely my call as to how the contracts get made up?"

 

"You did, but—"

 

"No. No more buts, Steve." Peggy shifts forward in her seat, placing her elbows on her desk. "I have been nothing but transparent with you since the end of your first season. I understand you want your questions answered because you're upset about Bucky's injury and don't know how else to act other than lash out at me, but I know you're better than that." Peggy takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Bucky was prone to injury, and Chester and I both knew that going in. It didn't help that Barnes refused to follow Dr. Erskine's advice time and time again. Chester wasn't willing to sign him on for more seasons than he could play for. There was no point. We decided to keep him on this season with a probationary contract, accounting for the fact that it might be his last with us."

 

Peggy's voice isn't completely unsympathetic, but it all sounds so disengaged to Steve's ears in that moment. It _was_ his fault for assuming Bucky had signed the exact same contract as him.

 

"Why not sign me on for one or two seasons? Chester wanted me so badly that he thought I wouldn't want to stay on the team after this season if Bucky wasn't able to play?" Steve asks angrily.

 

Peggy presses her lips together. "I know you much better than Chester. That was my call," she admits softly. "And before you try to make me out to be a villain in this situation, can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me my assumption was wrong?"

 

Steve lifts his gaze, eyes suddenly clear as they meet Peggy's unwavering stare. The rational part of Steve knows that she isn't the one to hold accountable; It's just the way of their profession. She has to make tough calls at times, and those are calls Steve has no right to blame her for. That aside, this entire conversation just reinforces the idea that they aren't players, aren't human, just assets to the guy a step above them.

 

Steve stands up, calmer and more reserved than he was when he had first walked in. "No, I can't." And with that, Steve walks out of Peggy's office and leaves the Stars' stadium, bitterly wishing it could be the last time he'd ever have to do so.


	2. Pinch Hitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback everyone!! ❤️ It makes me so happy to finally get this fic up and outta my google docs. Sorry for the lack of Tony last chapter, had to tease you guys a little bit ;)

January, 1987

 

SportsCenter is normally playing on the big, boxy televisions in the gym, and it isn’t really something Steve tends to focus on until he sees a picture of Howard Stark show up on the screen before switching to a picture of a younger man who bears a striking resemblance to the business mogul. He must be the son that Howard and Peggy were talking about four years ago. It’s a striking photo, a black and white portrait of a youthful boy made out to look like a man. He can’t be more than eighteen, but has the smooth cheekbones and sharp jawline of his father. His long lashes cast shadows over dark eyes, an intimidating gaze paired with a coy, crooked grin. Tony has the expression of a man who’s just won a table of bet chips on a bullshit hand.

 

Curious, Steve steps away from the power rack he was doing pull-ups on to turn the volume knob up on the television. The fuzzy screen has just cut back to the two newscasters, the picture of a smiling young Stark still on the screen behind them. The reporters seem to be in the middle of a heated discussion.

 

"—and people are not a fan of his. We've had plenty of cocky, controversial players play in the minor leagues, y'know, kids too big for their britches, but never one that has been this outwardly disrespectful to the sport."

 

"Some people aren't seeing it as disrespectful, though. People have gotten used to Howard Stark's new way of looking at baseball—"

 

"New gear is one thing, but this kid openly trashes the hard work and effort these athletes pour into the game," The newscaster looks into the camera now. "Just a refresher, this was the statement Tony Stark made after last season."

 

The TV cuts to static for a moment before showing a different reporter talking with Tony outside the Irons’ home stadium in Malibu. Tony's hair is still matted with sweat, his jersey slung over one shoulder. He looks almost bored as the reporter speaks.

 

"There's a lot of controversy around your approach to the game, Mr. Stark.”

 

"Oh really?" Tony asks with a half-smirk, not sounding very surprised by this.

 

The reporter nods. "Your comments at your father's last press conference have ruffled many people's feathers. To quote you— If I may?"

 

"Go right ahead," Tony allows with a gesture of his hand. "If there's anything I love more than hearing my own voice, it's other people repeating things I've said."

 

The reporter doesn’t seem phased by the player's response, now reading off a piece of paper. "You said, _'The tradition of baseball is all a sham. I didn't grow up playing catch in a field, I didn't spend countless hours of my life training, running, swinging bats, or pitching balls. There is no hard work involved if you're smart enough to know better. I don't pitch flawlessly because of a well-trained arm; it's all simple physics. I can hit a ball to any place I want by using my brain. My perfect_ form _comes from perfect_ formulas _that all get worked out in my head before I even step out on the field.'_ " The reporter is looking Tony in the eye again. "Do you have anything to add onto that and perhaps clarify to the side of the baseball audience that isn't on board with your 'scientific' approach to the game?"

 

Tony doesn’t hesitate with his answer. "I think there's just a lot of old fogeys out there who are **[censored]** -ing themselves over the fact that I'm showing up all of their favorite old players who can't handle a little change in the game."

 

"So you believe you're changing the game?" the reporter presses.

 

Tony laughs and rolls his eyes. Steve can feel his blood boiling at this kid's attitude. He clearly has the attitude of a teenager who couldn't be bothered, which made sense as to why he has such a mouth on him. "Of course I am. It's what Starks do." He looks off camera then and nods to someone off screen before clapping the reporter on the back. "Feel free to quote me on that too," he says, pointing and winking at the camera before walking off.

 

The feed transitions back to the reporters in the studio, both of them shaking their heads.

 

"The kid needs an attitude adjustment," one anchor insists. His counterpart seems less perturbed by Tony's behavior.

 

"There might be a point to what he's talking about. It's one thing if he didn't have the skill to back it up, but we've watched this kid play amazingly and consistently every single game using this ‘scientific method of baseball’ he claims works so well. Clearly, he's doing something right, and maybe it's something not everyone can see. I think the attitude just comes from him being young and naïve."

 

"It doesn't matter if we see it or not. He’s already caused all these waves and has barely played two seasons. There’s a point where you can no longer use his age as an excuse for his arrogance. Tony Stark is disrespecting a huge portion of the people in this game, as well as the spectators. Fans, coaches, players, his own teammates— he is turning up his nose at the values these people hold all for what? To be a game changer?"

 

"Hey, I'm not saying I'm on his side with how he goes about it, but you can't discredit—" The TV suddenly goes black. Steve turns to see Bucky standing behind him with the remote.

 

"Why are you watching that crap?" Bucky asks with a slight smile. "Thought that kind of talk takes you out of your zone."

 

Steve is still trying to put the pieces together. "That was Howard Stark's son."

 

Bucky nods and looks at Steve to continue. "...And?" he prompts when no elaboration arrives.

 

Steve stares at the blank TV with a furrowed brow then looks back to Bucky. "I talked to Howard Stark a few years ago about his kid. Last I knew, he wasn't a ball player, he was some scientist or doctor or something studying at MIT."

 

Bucky laughs. "You really do stay away from all the news don't you?"

 

A sheepish smile crosses Steve's face. He tends to put on complete blinders when it comes to the media, but now it leaves him feeling rather oblivious. He avoids the sports sections of papers and doesn’t even have a television in his current apartment to keep up to date on any of the goings on. He stays concerned with his current team and that’s it.

 

Another laugh escapes Bucky's chest as he leans up against the weight rack. "I guess now that I'm retired I tend to have more free time on my hands to stay on top of the baseball news circulations," he jokes dryly, Steve flashing him a pained look. Silence hangs in the air for a moment before Bucky speaks up again. "Don't give me that pity look, at least _I'm_ in the loop."

 

"It's not a pity look," Steve denies, looking down at his hands instead. He hates talking about Buck's injury. He doesn’t even like thinking about it. Steve knew he hadn't been playing the same ever since Bucky got hurt, no matter how many times his captain and coach tried to reassure him that isn't so. In the end, it really didn’t matter. His time with the Stars feels long behind him now. "What are you doing here anyway, Buck? I thought you weren't getting back in town until the weekend."

 

"Missed ya," the former baseman answers simply before pushing himself off the weights. "Naw, I was here for more physical therapy."

 

"And?" Steve asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.

 

Bucky presses his lips together and shrugs. "No change," he answers, all-too casually.

 

"Ah," Steve chews on the inside of his cheek. "I'm s—"

 

"Don't you dare, Rogers," Bucky orders, no heat in his tone as he comes over to punch Steve in the shoulder with his good arm. "I already finished my session with Dr. Erksine. He told me you were still hanging ‘round. Dinner?"

 

Steve is perfectly fine with the subject change. "Yes," he groans. "I'm starving."

 

Bucky picks up Steve's duffel bag and tosses it to him. "Grab a pie from Vinny's and then chow down at your place?"

 

Steve catches the bag and slings it over his shoulder, following Bucky out of the room. "Absolutely."

 

* * *

 

 

A soft clang rings out through Steve's loft as his metal door slides shut after Bucky. It’s still weird having his own place all to himself, though loneliness isn’t the reason why it’s so strange. Steve finds comfort in his own solitude, but not having Bucky as his roommate made him anything but comfortable. Growing up they had always shared a block, and once they got their own places away from their parents, they had continued to live together.

 

Things changed after Buck's injury, whether the two of them liked it or not. The stress and pressure of being in the limelight didn’t help the UCL tear, so Bucky moved upstate. It's not like Steve could be mad or even betrayed by his best friend's decision. It was for the best, and being out of the public eye is what he needed. They still visit each other a few times a month when they can, and Bucky is always invited to attend Steve’s games, though there are times when the retired player can’t bring himself to step back into the stadium, even just to watch. Steve doesn’t blame him for that either.

 

As kids, they had always had a friendly competition going on between them. Sarah used to joke that as soon as Bucky did anything, Steve was quick to copy it. Unfortunately, that still rings true.

 

The following season after Bucky’s injury and the Stars’ big World Series win, Steve started to feel some pain in his right knee.

 

It was an ACL sprain. Not a tear, lucky for Steve. Knee injuries were tricky but common in baseball players, tension on the tendons caused by any kind of twisting motion. There was a lot of sudden stopping and pivoting done as Steve was normally third base or shortstop.

 

He was almost grateful when the news came that he would be moving down to the Triple-A league. Despite moving up in the ranks, one league at a time, Triple-A was the one league Steve never played in. The Stars had called him up after four seasons of playing in the Double-As, so he had skipped right over the top league in the Minors.

 

The Triple-A is made up of a mix of up and coming youngsters as well as rehabilitating players who aren't quite ready to step foot in the majors again, but are cleared to play. It'ss certainly less strain and pressure than Major League play with a lesser number of games and a generally more lax season. The attention is divided between media wanting to keep an eye on the fresh newbies right on the cusp of breaking out in the Majors, as well as constantly wondering when their favorite MLB veterans might grace the league once again.

 

Following Bucky’s lead was all too tempting. The seasons in which Steve had to play without him were miserable. He felt like he had lost his own limb when playing. He had certainly lost his drive, and his performance on the field certainly reflected that.

 

Once the news broke that Steve would be leaving the Stars’ and was searching for a Triple-A Team to take him, Peggy had pulled some strings with a team she thought was a good fit for Steve. It kept him fairly local, moving from Brooklyn to Manhattan to play for The Avengers.

 

 _“I would trust Nick Fury with my life,”_ she had told Steve during last year’s off season, when he first found out his injury would keep him from major league play. _“It’s a good team with fantastic leadership by dear friends of mine. Natasha Romanoff is one of the toughest coaches in the league, and I learned everything I know about managing from Janet Van Dyne.”_

 

Steve thanked Peggy at the time. Forgiving her was easy once his head cleared, and she was the only thing that made him sad to leave the Stars in the end. He would begin playing with his new team in about two months, but he had yet to be cleared for full league play.

 

Dr. Erskine told him to expect to play a few friendlies here and there up until April, when he’d most likely have to sit out for the rest of the season. These games, also known as exhibition games, had no weight on standings in the regular season, but were more like scrimmages to show off new players and ease teams into the season, letting them play some teams they normally wouldn’t get to as much in regular league play.

 

Rejoining the major league is still a possibility, but it all depends on how his knee heals in the coming years. Steve also has to keep in mind that he's almost thirty now, and the time is ticking on how much longer he can continue professional play.

 

 _'You should look up that Stark kid.'_ Bucky's comment from earlier in the night echoes in Steve's mind. Steve checks the clock hanging on the wall; it reads 7:40. He still has time to get down to the public library and use the computers there to do a little research.

 

Steve brushes the leftover pizza crumbs off his jeans as he grabs his jacket off the back of the couch. The library is only a couple of blocks away, so it’s no hassle whenever Steve needs to go and use a computer. He understands the convenience of owning one of those new Macintoshes in his home, and it isn’t like he couldn't afford it with his salary. The main struggle comes from not being able to keep up with the new tech wave happening in America right now. He's still trying to get used to the Walkman Bucky got him a few birthdays ago.

 

Steve is through the public library doors at exactly 7:49. The girl behind the counter glowers at first before she realizes who it is disrupting her last peaceful moments before freedom. "Oh, it's just you. Hey, Steve."

 

"Hey Mandy," Steve nods at the spectacled high schooler behind the counter. "Mind if I log onto the computers? I'll try to be quick."

 

She shrugs and waves over at the computer room. "Take all the time you want, I like to be slow closing so I actually have an excuse when I'm late to dinner."

 

"Don't do that to poor Karen," Steve chides, the two sharing a smile before he ducks into the computer lab.

 

As Steve waits for the computer to boot up, he realizes he isn’t quite sure where to begin. He opens up a web browser and just searches "Tony Stark". The top search results look to be mostly gossip headliners that have little to do with sports, including an image from the news broadcast he had seen earlier that day. He doesn’t want recent; he wants some gaps filled.

 

"Tony Stark biography" Steve tries next. Search.

 

Page loading, page loading, there we go. The first result that comes up is on MiLB.com. Steve has one of his own biographies on this site, but his isn’t nearly as in depth as Tony's appears to be. He starts reading.

 

_Anthony Edward Stark, son of Howard and Maria Stark, born May 29t_ _h_ _, 1970, is a minor league baseball player. Before playing baseball professionally, Stark graduated summa cum laude from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, double majoring in physics and engineering. He is currently working on a doctorate in robotics._

 

_Since his minor league debut in 1985, he has been playing for the Irons, A Triple-A League team based in Malibu, California. Stark is knowingly adaptable towards positions outside of pitching, a versatile player when it comes to fielding as well as batting. He is prone to injury, but known to have reliable performance each game. Stark currently holds the record for highest pitching statistics in the minor league under the following categories: LOB% (left-on-base percentage), QOP (quality of pitch), whiff rate, and shutouts._

 

Holy ghost _, his pitching stats_. Steve knows his mouth is open as he pours over the list, wondering why in the hell Tony is wasting time playing in the minors with numbers like these, his family name be damned. He’s never given a player a walk (four failed pitches, allowing the batter to advance to first base), has extremely low hits allowed, has won every game he pitched in for five or more innings, records almost no wild pitches, and is constantly a starting or relief pitcher, meaning he either leads the team from the start or comes in when he’s needed most.

 

The rest of Tony’s stat card doesn’t disappoint. First off, Steve wants to know if it’s at all possible for there to be any typos on this thing. Every single statistic puts him _well-above_ the average of most of the players in his league, even just glancing at his overall player value. Hell, he’s beating out major league players too, _especially_ in the pitching department. Sure, he’s only been playing for two seasons, and stats are certainly set to waver over time, but the results Steve finds indicate that this boy is some kind of perfect baseball robot or android or _something_ inhuman.

 

Steve pulls up his own stats card just to compare them side-by-side. The only section Steve has Tony fairly well beat in is fielding, namely: assists, double and triple plays, range factor, and total chances. Tony’s ultimate zone rating is ahead of Steve’s, just barely, but that’s incredibly impressive for someone who is almost always pitching and rarely a defensive player. Steve is proud of his UZR, which is the overall ability of a fielder to defend their “zone”, so the fact that Tony’s even ahead by a fraction of a percentage is… impressive, to say the least.

 

They’re fairly evenly tied when it comes to batting and baserunning stats. Tony’s average home runs per game and per season is lower than Steve’s, but the kid’s got him beat in grand slams (home runs with loaded bases). Tony’s apparently a monster when it comes to stealing bases, with a huge margin between that and how often he’s been tagged out during a SB attempt, resulting in a high success rate. Steve is pleased to see he’s at least far ahead of Tony in his inside-the-park home runs, on-base percentage, and slugging average.

 

A tapping sound jolts Steve out of his reading, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room— when did the lights turn off? He looks towards the door where Mandy is standing. She lifts her hand, jingling a hefty set of keys at him. He quickly logs off the computer and lets her lock up. "Sorry, got caught up in my research."

 

"Whatever," she waves him off. "Have a good night, Steve."

 

"You as well, Mandy," Steve says before hurrying out.

 

A kid at his age who had already accomplished so much... Steve can hardly wrap his head around it. He’s sixteen for crying out loud! Steve was still in the rookies at that point in his career and never attended college, let alone graduated with all sorts of fancy Latin honors (did MIT even do Latin honors?). There had been a short period of time between the Class A-Advanced and Double-A league when Steve considered taking a break from baseball to pursue an art degree, but all his managers and coaches at the time were reminding him that he was at the point in his career where he had to strike when the iron was hot. There was no time for a higher education when you were a twenty year-old kid who was expected to get drafted at any moment. That moment came five years later when he was finally called up by The Stars, but still.

 

Steve considers himself a very open-minded individual and a fairly good judge of character. He refuses to make assumptions off Tony’s character only based on commentary from others, even if he did get a slight glimpse into Tony’s attitude earlier that day. That was a singular news clip that could’ve easily been taken out of context and wasn’t an immobile testament to Tony’s personality. The optimist in Steve wants to believe the interview had been some fluke and maybe the Stark kid was having an off day or has just been painted in a rough light.

 

These thoughts of Tony keep him up most of the night. If only this was a one-time occurrence in Steve Rogers’ life.

 

 

 

June, 1989

 

"Why do I have to go?"

 

"Because everyone has to go, Tony."

 

"Bullshit. I know I'm going to get picked, there's no point in even pretending at this point."

 

Pepper sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Will you just shower and get changed? You know that me babysitting you is supposed to come second to managing the team, right?"

 

Tony grins from behind the welding mask, flipping it up once he's satisfied with his work. "Completely untrue, Pep. We all know I'm a priority."

 

"A priority pain in my ass..." Pepper mumbles under her breath, checking her pager. "We're going to be late and your father is going to kill us both."

 

"I've been dead to him for years, what do I care?" Tony ducks out of the way when a wrench goes flying by his head. "Alright, alright, I'm going, jeez!" Tony sets his blowtorch down and wipes his grease stained hands on his pants.

 

"Happy's got wheels up in fifteen!" Pepper calls over her shoulder as she exits Tony's lab. The vast room is cleaner than usual, Tony only recently having done a huge overhaul to place a bunch of his prototypes in storage. Right now he's in the middle of revamping old projects he had abandoned during his years at MIT, namely his original designs for the first ever collapsible, full-power hydroengine.

 

Tony locks up the guest house he uses as his lab, having completely gutted the building to be much better suited for his needs (especially since there had definitely been a few mostly contained explosions that have gone down since he bought the residency after graduating).

 

Most people probably think Tony takes everything he has for granted, but he knows exactly how lucky he is to be a nineteen-year-old athlete/engineer who owns his own multi-million-dollar abode in Malibu with a private beach. He was born into brilliance; why wouldn’t he be thankful for everything he’s managed to make for himself because of that?

 

There's a suit hanging on the back of Tony's bathroom door, no doubt Armani— it  _is_ his favorite. He abandons his clothes on the tile floor before making quick work of his shower, knowing that Pepper will be blaring the horn on the car outside any moment now.

 

Despite his general attitude he gives Pepper around these sort of things, Tony really does love press events. He's been relishing in the attention he receives from them since his first magazine interview at age six after he built his first computer from scratch. That was back in '76, when that sort of thing was impressive. He's stepped it up since then of course.

 

Once Tony's skin is free of any oil stains and he no longer smells like the floor of an auto shop, he towel-dries his hair and quickly dresses himself. As he's tying his oxfords he hears Pepper honking the horn incessantly from outside. "I'm coming!" Tony yells as he takes the stairs two at a time, flying out the front door to hop into the back of the BMW.

 

"Here," Pepper hands him a comb, not looking up from her folder as she crosses out more names on the PCL roster.

 

"Who else are we taking from the Irons?" Tony asks as he combs back his tufts of hair that refuse to behave even on the best days.

 

"You'll find out at the press conference," Pepper reminds him tiredly, shielding her paperwork from his view when he attempts to peek.

 

"Can you just promise me we won't bring Hammer? That guy is such a douchebag, and he totally blew it last year."

 

"If he blew it last year, you shouldn't be worried about him getting called up again."

 

Happy pulls up to the stadium doors where the entire team is already gathered, sitting on benches chatting to each other. Tony can see Howard and Obadiah talking off to the side as the last of the reporters get settled in, photographers pushing their way to the front of the roped off section so they canget the best shot of whoever is going to be chosen to play in the All-Star Game.

 

This was a newer tradition in the baseball world, and Tony loves the addition. Beginning last year, the Triple-A League put together a huge All-Star Championship game that was to take place in the middle of every season, normally the day after the Major's All-Star game. Since the Triple-As were split into two sections, the Pacific Coast League and the International League, these two almost never got to play each other during the regular season. Now, the crème de la crème are chosen from every team in the league to represent their division.

 

The roster usually has around thirty players accounting for possible call-ups and injuries, but thirteen of those players are actually chosen by fans, media, and the coaches. There isn't a doubt in Tony's mind that he won't get chosen to play, no matter who it's left up to. He has an enormous fan base, he's the media's darling, and even if he wasn't Howard Stark's son, the managers and coaches throughout the Pacific League would have to be fools not to want him on their All-Star team. The rest of the seventeen players would be chosen by the league owners just to fill out the roster for possible substitutes.

 

"Glad you could finally make it," Obadiah says from behind Tony as he finds himself a spot on the bench, sitting by the other two pitchers who play for the Irons.

 

"Funny, people don't normally frown that much when they're glad," Tony responds, smirking up at his coach.

 

There's no more time for banter before Howard steps up to the microphone, Obadiah returning to his side along with Pepper. "Thank you all for coming this morning. We do have to hit the road for a game in Sacramento fairly soon, so I'll keep this short." He organizes the papers on the podium in front of him. "We're very lucky to have not one, not two, but _three_ players that have been chosen in part by all of you here today, as well as the fans at home. These players chosen are... Antione West, Gary Oba and Tony Stark." Everyone applauds as the chosen players stand, Tony receiving many pats on the back from his teammates. "The rest of the announcements by all the other teams today will be accumulated and run through in depth on ESPN tomorrow, as well as the host city for the game and more information surrounding the championship this year."

 

Tony steps forward with his fellow two teammates chosen to have their photos taken for the papers. Pepper stresses to the reporters that they don't have time for questions, urging the rest of the players to cut through the stadium and get on the bus to Sacramento.

 

There's still two more weeks of regular league play before Tony has to join the rest of the chosen players in Louisiana. It was decided that the host cities would alternate each year between the two leagues. The first game was hosted by an International Team based in Buffalo, and this year it had been decided that the game would take place in New Orleans.

 

Since Tony is considered "prone to injury" (a bullshit label in his opinion), Obadiah limits his play time leading up the Championship game. The Irons have good standings currently, and as much as it burns Tony up to watch Hammer luck his way through being an occasionally okay pitcher for the team, he would much rather make sure he can play in the game come July.

 

Tony's one request this year is that he isn't put on the All-Star team as a pitcher. Considering there are going to be three other people on the roster to fill that position, it will force him into being either a relief or starter and he probably won't even get to play more than three innings. Screw that.

 

"You're one of the best pitchers in the entire minor league and you're asking me to put you in a different position?" New Orleans' coach, a broad and terrifying man named Whitaker, asks in disbelief when Tony presents him with this concern.

 

“Well, to start, it’s just you and me here Coach, you don’t have to say _one of the_ , we both know I _am_ the best in the league—” he amends, immediately regretting it when he sees the man’s jaw clench. “Uh— But I guess that’s just semantics.”

 

"You do understand you were chosen to play on this team for a reason,” Whitaker reminds him flatly.

 

Tony nods. "Of course, sir, but I'm more than just a pitcher. Put me in the outfield, any of the bases, hell, I'll even play shortstop if you want. I just want to help out the team in the best way I can, and the more I play in any other position will help us way more than if I just get an inning or two as a pitcher." This is a total lie; Tony just wants more time in the limelight. He refuses to be outshone in his own starring role, and even he can admit that the other pitchers the PCL chose are pretty good.

 

"You helped the Pacific League win last year as a relief, or have you forgotten?"

 

Tony just smiles. "You know, I just swoop in when I'm needed and win games so often, I think that may have left my memory. They all blur together at this point."

 

Whitaker shakes his head, looking back down at the roster with a furrowed brow. "I'll see what I can do. And Stark?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Lose the fuckin’ attitude." He slams his binder shut before blowing his whistle and returning to the rest of the team.

 

* * *

 

 

_"Alright, The International League is first up to bat, the Pacific Coast League currently taking their positions on the field... And in a surprising twist, it looks like everyone's favorite spitfire Tony Stark is taking to the infield."_

 

_"Interesting choice considering the kid is famous for his pitching skills. In the meantime, looks like the PCL is still starting strong with KC Harrington from Louisville..."_

 

Tony lets the sound of the crowd and commentators energize him as he hops up and down in place between second and third bases. Whitaker had come to him first thing that morning and told him he'd be allowed to play as shortstop for the match.

 

_"Don't make me regret this," the coach furiously told him._

 

_"I won't let you down, sir," Tony replied._

 

Short stop is one of the most demanding defensive positions, so Tony knows he has his work cut out for him. This is the ultimate opportunity to show off the range of his skillset. He doesn't mind being pigeon-holed as a pitcher, he's phenomenal at it after all. The only times he normally got the opportunity to leave the mound was for the friendlies, and there was still only a 50% chance Obadiah would let him try out a different position. This game is going to be huge in terms of showing Tony's versatility with his scientific method, and that it didn't just apply to throwing the perfect pitch.

 

As the game starts, he does feel a pang of sadness seeing someone else on that pitcher's mound. Harrington is the second best choice on the all-star team, and he proves that in the first inning. His ace pitching combined with the Pacific Coast team's impressive outfielders ensures no runs for the International League. Tony barely gets any handling on the ball, and was itching for some action. Unfortunately for him, he's low on the batting rotation because of his position as shortstop. When it's their team's turn to take to the plate, they manage to get one run before three outs are called. There's still two more players ahead of Tony for the batting rotation, so he'll have to wait until the next inning before he has the chance to swing.

 

His adrenaline doesn't get going until Steve Rogers comes up to bat.

 

He knows all about Rogers. How could he not when his father was such a fanboy towards him?

 

_"You could be that great," his father said. Tony was five years old and sitting on their living room floor, rewiring his AC car._

 

_Tony glanced up at the TV in disinterest. There was cheering coming from it as a player rounded the bases at a jog. He must've gotten a home run._

 

_"Wow, another dude who hit it out of the park in the A League. I'll pass," Tony mumbled, going back to work._

 

_His father scoffed. "You don't see it. If you'd get your nose out of your little projects and get more serious about baseball..." He gestured towards the screen, ice clinking together in his empty scotch glass. "This kid has it. He's so much more than the rookie he was a couple years back..."_

 

_"If you like him so much, why don't you make him the face of the company?" Tony asked with an eye roll, screwing the panel back in before he picked up the remote. He clicked a stick upwards and the car's wheels flipped sideways and the toy lifted off the ground thanks to the propellers Tony had frankensteined onto the wheels, stolen from one of his RC helicopters._

 

_"Go play with that in your room," Howard sighed loudly, rubbing his temples._

 

_The car thudded back to the ground. Tony picked up the remote and his new invention, glancing back towards the TV on his way out. The camera was on the player's face that his dad had been talking about, but he didn't look like most of the showboaters Howard took interest in. He wasn't smiling, waving to fans, or pandering towards the camera. He had a serious expression on his face, walking back towards the dugout giving his teammates pats on the back._

 

Here is Steve Rogers, standing 127 feet and 3.5 inches away, looking much older than he had in that grainy footage from fourteen years ago. He was probably around eighteen or nineteen at that time, so he had definitely filled out, that teenage lankiness nowhere to be seen. The jersey is stretched tight around his chest and shoulders and he stands about a head taller than most of the players on the field.

 

Honestly, Tony doesn't see what is so special about the guy. His father's voice is echoing in his head,  _Steve Rogers this, Steve Rogers that_ , and it puts a bad taste in his mouth. Tony spits on the ground to rid the memory and crouches in a ready position. He has a newfound drive for this game, and it's to get Steve Rogers out at every opportunity provided. It would probably feel more satisfying if he could've knocked him out as a pitcher, but catching an out would have to do.

 

Steve's swing is near perfect, and he sends the ball flying right over Tony's head into the outfield, right towards the empty spot with no coverage. So he knows what he’s doing with a bat. Before he can stop himself, Tony takes off at a full sprint, the center fielder making a run for the ball as well.

 

"Stark, what are you doing?!" the second baseman yells, but Tony can hardly hear it. He keeps his eye on the ball and in his periphery he can see the center fielder slow to a stop, knowing he isn't close enough. Tony stretches his arm out and catches the ball, clutching it in his glove before rolling to the ground to slow his momentum. He pops back up, holding the ball up in his glove victoriously. Cheering erupts, and out is called, and he can't wipe the grin off his face as he sees Rogers' surprise that he had dared to go after the ball.

 

"I had that, _dick_ ," the center fielder hisses, ramming his shoulder into Tony's.

 

"I had it first," Tony replies with a shrug, jogging back to his position.

 

Tony helps get another out, and then the International team gets a home run, followed by their third out. Tony's itching to step up to bat, squinting through the sun to try and spot which position Steve is at. His blonde hair is free of any baseball cap, making him easy to pick out. First baseman. Not really a threat, especially if Tony's batting right-handed.

 

Tony purposely hits a single. Examining the IL’s defensive set up, a double or a triple is definitely possible, but he's just petty enough to put his personal agenda to get closer to Steve Rogers above trying to get a better run, the All-Star Game be damned.

 

After he tags the base, he looks up at Steve, tipping his baseball cap up a bit to get a good read. They make eye contact for a few tense moments, Steve the first to break it, focusing back on the game at hand. Tony's turning over his options for a sarcastic remark, but Steve surprises him by speaking first.

 

"That was some out," he says conversationally, still looking down the line as the next Pacific player steps up to the plate.

 

“Yeah,” Tony takes his lead-off, but keeps closer to Steve and the base than he usually would when getting his head start for his next run. “Sometimes you gotta go above and beyond, right?”

 

Tony notices the tendon appear on Steve’s neck as his jaw clenches at that remark. In his early years in the league, Steve’s very first interview was one he had fumbled his way through, eventually telling the reporter almost too cheerily that he was determined to go “above and beyond!” For his team. This peppy mantra stuck to him, a tagline that accompanied his name in every article in the paper or segment on a radio show. Tony didn’t know until now that it would rile the man so much. Good. He’d take note of that.

 

The batter swings, the ball goes flying to the left, and Tony is gone. He’s already made contact with the base before the ball crests further than desired, landing just outside the foul lines. A groan echoes from the crowd and Tony jogs back over to first base.

 

“Welcome back,” Steve says dryly. Not an uncommon greeting, but the basemen usually sounded more smug about it.

 

“It’s been too long,” Tony agrees. “How’s the wife and kids? The twins just started school, right?”

 

Steve returns the gibe with a blank stare, his brow furrowing at Tony for a moment before he looks back towards home plate. Awkwardly dejected, Tony scoots a few feet away, spreading his feet in anticipation as he inches closer to his next mark.

 

“Yep, they sure do grow up fast,” Steve suddenly says out of nowhere, Tony looking at him in surprise. Almost simultaneously, the crack of a wooden bat against the ball echoed around the stadium, Tony’s reaction time slower than usual. There is an awkward beat of his legs not being quite ready to move, focus still on the first baseman behind him. His gaze immediately snaps to the ball, watching the arc and direction of it as it sails towards the back left corner of the field. Tony doesn’t even need to see the batter’s swing to know it’s going to be an out. He returns to first base without preamble, unhappy with the out but pleased that his lapse in attention wouldn’t cost them anything.

 

_“Out!”_

 

Steve looks amused, his arms crossed as the next batter steps up. “Didn’t even try for second?”

 

Tony stares sourly at the scoreboard, kicking the dirt a bit around the base. “No point in wasting time and energy when you already know the outcome.”

 

“Didn’t know you gave up that easy, Stark.”

 

_“Ball!”_

 

Tony’s head snaps back over to Steve, still standing a good few feet away in anticipation for one of his batters to actually follow through with a play. “You know who I am?” He asks, immediately feeling foolish. _Of course_ Rogers is going to know who he is. There’s not a single person who’s ever been inside a baseball stadium who wouldn’t know—

 

“Yeah, it’s on the back of your jersey,” Steve replies flatly.

 

Embarrassment isn’t something Tony is sure he’s ever felt before, but if inflamed cheeks and a drop in the pit of his stomach was any indication, then he might be embarrassed right now. He can feel that he’s gaping a bit, mind unsure of how to process the fact that Steve was now seemingly taking pride in _messing_ with him. Messing with his head.

 

_“Strike! One-one!”_

 

If the game continues like this, Tony is going to be stuck here with Rogers for the rest of the inning. He shakes his head and scans the field again, eyes jumping from player to player, settling the longest on the pitcher. He spreads his legs a bit further apart and begins to scoot his way closer to the second base, reluctantly letting his eyes move back to Rogers in his periphery. He notices Steve punch the palm of his glove three times. Now, this wouldn’t normally strike him as odd if he hadn’t done it so _loudly_ , and if Tony hadn’t looked back to the catcher to see his gaze focused on Tony, even from a distance. Almost imperceptibly, the pitcher glanced back over his shoulder as well. So they had a signal for steals. Tony would have to cut that shit right now. He’s had just about enough of being in the golden boy’s personal bubble at this point.

 

Purposefully, he edges his way back closer to Steve, watching the pitcher’s suspicious gaze turn forward again.

 

_“Ball! Two-one!”_

 

It's never ending. Tony stands casually straight now, his hands on his hips in a relaxed manner. “Jesus Christ, is your pitcher ever actually going to do something? Didn’t know it usually took this long to give us a walk.”

 

Rogers scoffs, shaking his head. He’s still watching Tony, but doesn’t seem as observant as he looks back to his pitcher who’s taking his time before his next wind up. “So we’ve moved on to shit-talking now? Am I allowed to point out that your batter can’t hit a ball if it was tossed to him from three feet away?”

 

_“Ball! Three-one!”_

 

At this rate, the Pacifics may just get a walk. The satisfaction of moving forward to second base will be lukewarm if it’s just because the pitcher _let_ him advance. No, Tony has a point to prove, and it looks like the pitcher is now contesting the last call and seems fairly distracted. Tony inches further away from Rogers’ base, eyes darting around the field for any sort of whistle-blower.

 

The ump stands by his decision, meaning that their pitcher is only one poor throw away from giving up the lead they had started with this inning. The argument having wrapped up, Tony hops back to his left, giving up a few feet of his lead-off just in time for the pitcher to turn around, checking that the only current base runner is still keeping himself on first. There’s a lot of pressure weighing down on the pitcher right now, the catcher also completely preoccupied as they try to settle what pitch to attempt next. Trying to throw off the batter with another pitch outside of the strike zone is too dangerous; They can’t risk giving up a walk. With Tony as a lower priority, it’s as simple as Tony taking off at full tilt, simultaneous with the fastball.

 

The bat whiffs through the air, counting it as a strike. As soon as the ball connects with the catcher’s mitt, he’s immediately firing it back into the infield. Tony’s too quick, and the ball shoots just out of the second baseman’s reach. A costly maneuver on the IL’s part means that Tony slides into second before he can be tagged. It’s a clean steal that’s met with mixed response from the audience.

 

Tony can’t stop grinning as he gets to his feet, wiping the dirt off one hip as he turns to look smugly at Rogers over his shoulder. The blonde is glowering with a narrowed gaze and shakes his head. Tony shrugs one shoulder and winks.

 

He and the second baseman aren’t nearly as chatty. The Pacific Coast team’s batter finally makes a connection with the ball, earning a double that pushes Tony all the way to home.

 

Accepting all the pats on the back from his teammates as he heads into the dugout to grab some water, he feels a hand seize him by the back of his jersey, choking him for a moment as he’s yanked backwards. “Ack— Hi, Coach.”

 

“What the hell was that, Stark?”

 

Tony blinks, looking up at the scoreboard and back to Whitaker. “...A run, sir?”

 

The vein that pops out on his forehead reminds him of Obie. It reminds him of a lot of people, actually. Maybe there’s a common denominator here. “I didn’t put you where you asked just so you could piss around. I got bigger things to worry about than keeping an eye on you to make sure you’re not screwin’ about on the field. You’re out. I’m pulling you from the rotation.”

 

“Are you serious?!” Tony outbursts, hearing a few snickers from behind him. He doesn’t care what the other players think of him right now. “I get an out, two out assists, steal a base, and score a run within the first two innings and you want to take me _out_?”

 

Whitaker’s writing furiously on his clipboard, the cap of the pen clenched between his teeth. “All I saw was a whole lot of showboatin’ out there, and that’s not what’s gonna win this game. But, hey, you seem to like negotiating ultimatums, so how’s this? You prevent _two_ International runs next inning by playing by the rules, none of that wild-card shit, and I’ll let you stay in another inning so you’ll have a chance at bat again. Then, you’re going to get me two more runs however you can. Get on-base players home, get a run yourself, I don’t care. You do that, and you can stay in for the rest of the game if it pleases you. Deal?”

 

Tony stares in disbelief. There are so many variables in everything requested of him. Sure, Tony could possibly get the two outs as a shortstop, but depending on how many players they get at bat, Tony might be in a poor position with outs against him by the time he steps up to the plate. It’s not impossible, but it is improbable. Tony doesn’t like those odds.

 

“Deal,” he agrees hotly.

 

Whitaker puts a huge hand on the top of his hat, giving Tony’s head a forceful push towards the bench. “Better rest up while you can.”

 

Tony doesn’t get much time to rest at all. After his run, they got two players to second and third base before their next batter struck out, earning them no additional runs going into the third inning. They’re still up, 2-1, and Tony is determined to make that gap bigger and prove himself to Whitaker. There is no more room in his head allotted for Steve Rogers.

 

Tony makes good on the first part of his deal. He tags out one player himself, and also manages to get the ball to first base and home for two more outs. He can hear the garbled praise from the announcer’s box as they move into the bottom of the third with no runs for the International League.

 

There’s five people ahead of him on the batting rotation. With how aggressive the IL is going to be playing their defense after getting no runs, Tony isn’t going to make it to plate on this round. He stands at the edge of the dugout even though he’s still breathing hard from all the exertion of the first half of the inning. He needs to watch. He needs to observe. The odds are going to be against him if there are any substitutes, which is likely going into the fourth inning. Tony’s counting on there not being too many changes, and he has to learn what he can while he has the time. He scans the field as each player comes to bat, checking for patterns, for weaknesses. Any chinks in the armor of this best-of-the-best lineup that the International League has to offer. Most of his attention is on the most crucial piece of the chessboard— the man who stands on the pitcher’s mound.

 

“Stark! Get your head out of the clouds, you’re on deck.”

 

Tony whips his head around in surprise, gaze torn away from the pitcher. He’s been so focused on watching the Internationals that he didn’t realize the feats the PCL accomplished. Caught off guard, Tony quickly puts on his batting gloves and grabs his bat, getting into place off to the side of the foul lines. He looks up to the scoreboard and out across the infield to fill in the gaps he missed. They’ve scored two runs, currently have one out, with one man on base, and the batter down with two strikes. Okay, there's still a salvageable plan out of this. Their batter just needs to get a single on this next ball. That gives Tony plenty of wiggle room to get them both home. Him getting his own run is going to depend on the batter up after him, but he can hopefully at least get to second or third—

 

_“Strike three! Out!”_

 

Shit.

 

There is no time to panic. Tony looks over his shoulder at Whitaker. “We’re up by three, you still gonna hold me to this stupid deal?”

 

Whitaker shrugs at him. “You asking me to fold on a winning hand, Stark?”

 

Tony clamps his jaw shut and just walks up to the plate, knowing his response could get him ejected from the entire game. _You can still do this. You know what this pitcher is going to try, he does the same thing on every batter he’s got against the ropes with two outs. He won’t risk a walk at this point._ He’ll try and pitch Tony something he has to hit far and high, the best position for them to be in to try and get him out. A bunt isn’t going to cut it this time, but Tony also noticed his fast balls tend to be less accurate in staying in the strike zone.

 

Right as Tony readies himself, lifting his bat up into position, a whistle is blown. He watches as the pitcher leaves the mound to be replaced by someone else. “Seriously?” Tony can’t help but ask, looking back at Whitaker for assistance. His coach is already approaching the Ump to try and contest, but the substitute was previously marked down and deemed perfectly legal. Tony swears under his breath, squinting up at the board to see the name of the fresh pitcher who just came in. Carson Greene. Tony knows about him— he knows about all the pitchers in the MiLB. It’s how he stays on top of monitoring his own skill level. He has to make sure he’s always outranking the rest.

 

Greene’s got a mean fastball, and Tony is sure he intends to use it to try and strike him out. He’ll probably throw a poor pitch to throw him off, make him think he was trying to get Tony to swing at a poor time and then follow it up with a pitch of blinding speed to end things quick.

 

The IL coach looks cool on the surface, but Tony can tell he’s nervous. Their opening pitcher hadn’t been doing so hot, sure, but with Tony up to the plate, they need someone who’s going to try and take him by surprise. Well, two can play at that game. Tony alters his position, switching to the other side of the plate. Greene doesn’t look that concerned when Tony moves to pitch left-handed. He supposed the coach was well aware that Tony was a switch-hitter, and would’ve chosen an opponent who could easily accommodate this. Tony’s original plan was going to be to hit it to the left fielder, who he observed to have the slowest reaction time. He could still do it while batting left-handed, but now that was the expected direction for the ball to go in. The outfielder would be on high alert.

 

Greene throws the first curveball. Tony doesn’t even flinch. It’s a ball. He can feel sweat dripping down his brow and readjusts his helmet as he readies himself for the next pitch. He almost, almost swings, but decides not to last minute. A second ball. This sets a new plan in motion.

 

Tony swings on the next one, making sure he’s a little early on purpose to watch the ball go flying left, just out of bounds. That’s a foul and a strike against him. The ball gets back to the pitcher. Tony switches back to stand on the original side of the plate he had started at. On the surface, this is a desperate move, something a player did only upon realizing he’s not able to get the ball where he wants it when batting lefty. He can see Greene smirking from the pitcher’s mound as he winds up for another pitch.

 

_Crack._

 

It’s a fastball, just like Tony had expected. He times his swing perfectly this time, but changes the angle to get the trajectory just how he wants it. He takes off, knowing that the ball is at least a double to get Miller, the player on second, home. He can possibly get himself to third if he hauls ass and the International League puts the focus on getting the ball home to prevent another run.

 

He doesn’t even blink as he makes contact with Rogers’ base, flying towards second immediately. There’s already an uproar of cheers as Miller goes for home plate. Tony chances a glance to the left fielder who only has a split-second to decide who he’s going to try and get out. The choice is obvious. The Pacifics are down with two strikes, and Tony appears to be slowing to a stop at second. Between him, and the guy going for their _third_ run in one inning, the decision has already been made for him.

 

Tony doesn’t stop as expected, and continues to fly around the bases. The timing is close, every moment happening in succinct succession. The ball is launched from the left fielder’s hand, sailing past Tony and straight for home. Miller had the head start though, and he’s already made contact with the plate a second before the ball lands in the catcher’s mitt. Tony streams past the shortstop. The catcher throws it to third in a last ditch effort to end the inning. The third baseman’s foot is on the base, his glove waiting to receive the ball and knock Tony out of the game, but the young Stark’s speed is unmatched.

 

“Safe!” The ref calls, another wave of wild cheering bursting from the stadium. Tony wipes the kicked up dirt from his face as he collapses to his knees, sweat stinging his eyes. With that last push of energy, he had managed to sneak his way into a triple. He holds a weak thumbs up in Whitaker’s direction before getting to his feet, ignoring the proffered hand from the third baseman. Raising his arms above his head as he catches his breath, Tony knows he has next to no time before the next batter comes to plate.

 

 _Just hit a single,_ Tony thinks. _A single is all I need_.

 

The IL is shaken up after Tony’s play. There’s a chance their batter will pull through, and Tony just prays he’s smart enough to get the ball as far away from home as possible to give Tony time to earn the team their fourth run in one inning. He hits the first ball pitched to him, Tony launching forward and skidding to a stop half-way between the bases when the whistle blows and it’s called foul. His ankle throbs slightly as he goes back to the base, hands on his hips. The small ache isn’t any cause of concern, Tony knowing it’s just an after effect from some soreness from practice a week ago where he had been rotating too sharply on that foot. After a few more massages from the PTs, he’ll be good as new.

 

Tony notices the slight change in his batter’s stance right as the pitch is thrown, and he internally curses. He takes off again, no time to think or look back as his batter hits a ground ball towards the shortstop. They both have to act quickly as baserunners right now, because if either of them are out, then that’s it. The ball bounces almost too perfectly, right in front of where the shortstop had run forward to. It bounced high in the air, going right over his head and practically out of reach. He fumbles with it in the air and rather than fire it towards first, turns and tries to get it home.

 

Tony slides when he knows he’s closed the distance he needed. He comes to a stop right on the base almost at the exact same time he feels the catcher’s mitt come into contact with his thigh. Both their heads whip upwards to look at the referee. His arms come together in front of him before being thrust outwards in a horizontal line, deeming that Tony had made it in another close call. His elbow that had been propping him up went lip, collapsing onto his back in relief as the uproar of cheers washed over him. He blinked up at the blue, blue sky, still breathing hard even as a referee urged him to get up before he’d have to eject him for holding up the game.

 

Tony finally rolls to his feet, not even bothering to try and wipe the dirt off his uniform as he goes over to the dugout to switch out his bat for a glove. “Stark!” He hears Whitaker bark at him from the field. “Good job out there. Now put down the mitt, Denver’s subbing in for you.”

 

The words don’t register in his head for a moment. He blinks, feeling a pat on the back from Los Angeles’ Noah Denver as he hops off the bench and jogs out into the shortstop position. Tony comes out of the dugout, his glove still clenched tightly in one hand. “What do you mean, Whitaker? We had a deal!”

 

“Look at you, kid!” The coach burst, exasperated. “You burnt yourself out with that last inning. If you think I’m gonna keep a tired player like you in for any longer, you’re nuts.”

 

Tony’s eyes widen in anger. “Why the fuck do you think I pushed so hard in the _first_ place? I had to meet all your _stupid_ requirements just so I could stay in! You said you’d let me keep playing! We’re up by _four_ thanks to _me_!”

 

Whitaker shakes his head in anger, looking out to the field to make sure they’re all set for the next inning to start before he storms over in front of Tony, getting into his personal space. He jabs a finger into Tony’s chest. “You better watch your fucking tone, kid. You’re not the first hot shot dickhead I’ve had to kick off my team. Now this attitude might fly back in Malibu, but not here. You wanna know the reason you’re done playing for today? It’s because of that big head of yours thinking you’re the _only_ reason we’re up by four.” He seizes Tony by the front of his jersey now, arm flexing as he gives him a forceful shake. “I get it. Back home, you’re used to everyone singing their praises and kissing the grass you walk on. But look around— _Look_ !” He shakes Tony again, pointing out at the field where the game has resumed despite the confrontation on the sidelines. “Believe it or not, the world does not revolve around you outside of the Irons. The only reason you’re here is because your old man makes you out to be some golden goose. If it were up to me, I would never let you on this team. You may be a good player, Stark, but you’re a _shitty_ teammate.”

 

Tony smacks his hand away, struggling to keep himself in control when his body is just thrumming with energy that wants to _burst_ outward, earlier fatigue be damned. “So what, it was all bullshit to teach me some kind of _lesson_? You just used me to get what you wanted, to get the team ahead, and now I don’t even get the reward I _deserve_?”

 

Whitaker holds his arms out, walking away from Tony. “That’s the game, kid! If you don’t like it, then go home to Daddy!”

 

Tony stares after him in disbelief. His blood is rushing in his ears and he throws the mitt that was clenched in his hand on the ground, storming off the field. He takes the tunnel through the back to exit the stadium, yanking the All-Stars jersey off over his head as he goes.

 

“Tony! Hey, Tony… Tony, stop!” He can hear Pepper’s voice echoing down the hallway from behind him, her heels clicking faster and faster as she tries to catch up to him. “I saw you storm off after talking to Whitaker. It looked _bad_ , Tony, you have to get back out there.”

 

“There’s no fucking way I’m going back, Pep,” Tony barks angrily, thrusting the jersey into her hands so they can auction it off at some charity event.

 

“ _To-ny_ ,” She chastises, dragging his name out in that way she always did. “This is going to be a PR nightmare. Can’t you just play nice for this one game? All you have to do is go back out there and sit on the bench and look supportive for the rest of the team. We can spin it that you were just frustrated about an injury or something— You needed to get some air.” Tony keeps walking forward, ignoring his manager. “Listen, I know maybe the game didn’t go how you wanted it to, but you had an amazing three innings! There are going to be a ton of reporters wanting to interview you, and there’s the dinner after the game with _both_ teams—”

 

Tony finally came to a stop, turning to hold Pepper by her arms. “Pep. Just stop. I get that you’re doing your job. And I love you for it. But I’m not in the mood right now, and there’s nothing you can say that’s going to get me to go back out there. Now can we just go back to the hotel?”

 

Pepper looks at him sympathetically, reaching out to hold his cheek. He leans into the touch, closing his eyes. “What did Whitaker say to you?”

 

Tony gives her forearms a slight squeeze, shaking his head. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”

 

She drops it after that. They return to their hotel, Tony taking an hour long shower until he’s satisfied. Pepper has to go back to the stadium before the game ends because there’s two other Irons players on the team and they need her attention too. She's kind enough to order him room service before she leaves. Tony has no idea how much money she makes, but the woman needs a raise. Two raises.

 

Tony doesn’t risk turning on the TV until he knows the game is over. He raids the fridge and settles on a fifth of Bourbon to drink from while he proofreads the eighth draft of his thesis he's been working on, marking it up with a red pen while he scans the pages. His cell phone rings a few times, but Tony ignores it.

 

The bottle has only a few sips left when Tony finally collapses onto his stomach on the bed, splayed out on white sheets in his matching white robe. He reaches out for the remote, groping around for a moment until his fingers enclose around the device. He turns the power on, knowing that ESPN was the last channel the TV had been on that morning before the game.

 

The Pacific Coast League win. Tony is happy with the outcome, of course, but there’s still a narrow-minded thought that runs through his head that is angry they had continued to do so well after he had left. The final score is 7-3, a highlight reel of the game playing on the screen. Tony only turns it off mute when he sees his own form sprinting to third base, cross-fading into his slide home.

 

_“—easily the turning point of the game during that third inning, an incredible series of plays made by The Irons infamous prodigy, Tony Stark.”_

 

_“The International League unfortunately didn’t stand a chance afterwards, their morale taking a total hit. Now there were some attempts, but they just weren’t able to come back from that huge lead the Pacific Coast League established thanks to Stark, with some equally astounding runs from that inning by Bryant and Wilkins.”_

 

The smile on Tony’s face quickly fades when the reporters drift to another topic, Tony now seeing a much less flattering reel of him and Whitaker yelling at each other.

 

_“However, it wasn’t just Stark’s third, and unfortunately final, inning of the game that has people talking. After being subbed out, there was apparently a confrontation between Stark and Coach Whitaker, one that had Malibu’s favorite star child storming out of the stadium after throwing a fit. Not a great look for Stark who has already had plenty of controversies surrounding him caused by his behavior.”_

 

_“On the flip side of that, we saw a great show of sportsmanlike conduct from Steve Rogers during the sixth inning when there was a brutal collision with the PCL's Gary Oba that resulted in Oba taken off the field due to injury. This was Rogers’ first Triple-A All-Star game, and the first time we’ve actually seen him back in full action since he stepped down from the major league two seasons ago. Rogers—”_

 

Tony turns the TV off and hurls the remote across the room. His phone starts ringing again, Tony answering it just to put an end to at least one of the calls.

 

“ _What_ ?” He snaps angrily, immediately softening when he hears the voice on the line. “Oh. Sorry. Yeah, hi Mom. No, I’m okay… You watched it? Y-Yeah, thanks, Mom. It, um… It was okay. Wish I could’ve played a little more but… Yeah… Yeah, I know… But, um, did Howard..? ...Oh. No, yeah, I know he’s overseas doing business I just figured maybe— I mean, it’s the _All-Star game_ and he couldn’t even…” Tony sighs in defeat. “You’re right. Yeah, I know… I _know_ , Mom… It wasn’t a big deal, Whitaker and I just got into a disagreement, that’s all… Yes, I’m _fine_ , really… Yeah, I just ate…” Another sigh. “Mhm… Yeah, I know I do… Thanks, Mom… Yes, I’ll tell her… Alright, love you too. Bye.”

 

Tony drops the phone away from his ear, sloshing around the last bit of honey-colored drink left in the bottle. ' _Maybe it’s time to make some changes, amore.'_  His mother’s words echo in his brain. As always, she's probably right.

 

 

 

February, 1990

 

It’s a bright day in New York. The light of the sun is diffused but undeterred by the thin stretch of clouds covering the grey sky that stretches out above the stadium in front of Steve. He walks into the Polo Grounds with a renewed confidence that this is going to be a remarkable season.

 

The locker room is empty as Steve quickly sheds his layers and changes out of his thick, woolen socks and worn-out boots into his baseball socks and cleats. His car had been giving him trouble that morning (what else is new) causing him to run late to the first practice of the new season. He hurriedly grabs the gear from his bag and makes his way onto the field where the rest of his team is waiting, all chattering excitedly while doing their warm-ups.

 

Steve is now thirty-two and Captain of the Manhattan Avengers. When the position was offered to him, Steve had initially turned it down. This is only his fourth season with the team, and while it's common for players to come and go in the Triple-A league, arguably more than any other level of the minors, there are certainly players on the team who have much more tenure than Steve. Natasha had insisted though, and after earning approval from both Janet and Fury, it was official that he was to be appointed leader after Pym decided it was time for him to retire.

 

"What are we waiting on?" Steve whispers to Clint as he approaches, watching Natasha pace back and forth in annoyance, checking her watch every minute or so. While Steve is comfortable with Natasha as a coach at this point, he tends to avoid her when she’s in one of these moods. One wrong look and he'll be running suicides until the sun goes down.

 

Clint shrugs and shouts over towards their coach. "Hey, Nat, what's the hold up?" The man is fearless.

 

Natasha whips her head around, the irritation etched on her face doubling with Clint's question. "Waiting for our newest pitcher," she replies, less heat in her voice than Steve expects. This triggers all sorts of queries from the team.

 

"We're getting a new pitcher this season?"

 

"Who is it?"

 

“When did this happen?”

 

“Fury didn’t mention anything about a new pitcher.”

 

Steve normally stays on top of transfers, but neither Fury nor Van Dyne have mentioned anything about a new team member while he’s been in their presence. He can’t even recall any names that are rumored to be joining the Avengers this season. The fact that this has slipped under his radar as captain is astounding, even more so because pitchers are supposed to begin spring training at the top of the month, sometimes even as early as January, before the rest of the team is even scheduled to make an appearance on the pitch.

 

Natasha blows her whistle to get everyone to quiet down. “Start your warm ups for now, we can’t wait around all day. Rogers, you lead stretches.”

 

Steve wants to stop everything and ask Natasha who their new pitcher is, but she’s clearly not in the mood to discuss it. He starts stretching with the rest of the team, making sure everyone would be ready for the first day back. His teammates were usually completely committed to a good workout schedule during the off season, but he knows Natasha is going to run their practice extra hard today since she’s in a bad mood. The woman’s relentless like that, but it keeps them at the top so Steve has zero complaints.

 

"About time!" Natasha shouts suddenly, looking towards the tunnel. Steve turns, feeling his heart fall out of his chest at the figure walking towards them. This had to be a dream. A nightmare— one that Steve has definitely had before.

 

Tony Stark walking towards them _does not compute_. Even with his eyes shrouded by orange-tinted spectacles, there is no mistaking that lopsided grin and casual strut onto the field even from a distance. Steve's head is swimming with questions. Tony holds so much notoriety right now that it would be near impossible to keep him transferring teams a secret, especially considering the team he would be leaving is owned by his own family.

 

It’s clear that Steve isn’t the only one who is shocked by this. Almost everyone on the team is staring open-mouthed as Tony strolls towards them. "What's everyone standing around for?" he asks, shit-eating grin still in place.

 

"We were waiting for you _, Your Grace_ ," Natasha growls sarcastically. "You're thirty minutes late, and that means you stay an extra thirty minutes."

 

Tony raises his eyebrow as he slips his glove onto his hand. "Seriously?"

 

"Yeah, _seriously_. Your Daddy isn't here now to give you any special treatment. You're on my field now, Stark. Tuck in your shirt,” Natasha orders. She’s normally this harsh on new blood, but the malice in her voice seems oddly personal.

 

Tony stares at her blankly for a moment, the rest of the team watching the verbal spar with bated breath. "Thirty minutes, huh? Listen Coach Romanoff, I'm a pretty busy guy, so I don't know if I can spare—"

 

"You can, and you absolutely _will_ ," Natasha interrupts fiercely, stepping towards Tony with crossed arms. Steve notices everyone take a step back from the exchange.

 

The pitcher keeps his stance lax. "And that's non-negotiable?"

 

Steve wants to scream at Tony to shut up. He has no idea what he’s getting into right now. Natasha has a reputation as one of the hardest coaches in the minor league. At first, Steve assumed it was so she wasn’t undermined as a woman, but he soon caught on that gender had absolutely nothing to do with it. She’s a hard ass who refuses to take anyone’s excuses, all the way down to her core.

 

Natasha smiles cruelly. "You know what? You changed my mind. We can negotiate." She points at the pitcher's mound. "You're going to pitch a ball to every single player on this team. Every ball they hit is an extra fifteen minutes on today's practice for you."

 

Tony's eyebrow peaks along with his level of interest. "One pitch per player?" He glances around at everyone, dark eyes lingering on Steve for a beat longer than everyone else. Tony gives him a once over, a feeling of discomfort washing over the blonde. Does Tony remember him from last year? "Too easy."

 

Natasha's eyes narrow. "We'll see about that. Line up, everyone. Time to see what our new pitcher can do."

 

"I do have one request," Tony says as he makes his way towards the center of the diamond. "I want to see everyone's warm up swing. Does that sound fair?"

 

Natasha looks around at the team, clearly unsure if she should allow this. "Yes, fine," she spats, waving a hand. "Everyone give Stark some practice swings and then I want to see you hit that ball into the outfield."

 

 _No bunts or pop flies?_ Tony thinks to himself as he picks up one of the balls in the bag sitting by the mound. _She's making this way too easy. I should've raised the stakes and asked for something in return_. Even though Tony has never met Coach Romanoff before today, there is a small, sane part of his brain that concludes that maybe pushing that final button isn’t the best idea.

 

The players all line up, looking around uneasily before falling into a random order. Steve is towards the end of the line, second to last.

 

"This kid's got a death wish," Sam mumbles to Clint.

 

"I kind of like his moxxie," Clint replies with a shrug. "Although I don't care how good you are, no pitcher has a good enough record to be able to get a strike on every player just at batting practice. Not to mention the fact that we don't even get punished if we miss."

 

Steve wants to correct Clint in that moment, because he _has_ seen Tony’s record, and it’s fully in his capabilities to strike out every single one of them. He was quite interested, however. When they had played against each other for the All-Star game last year, Tony wasn’t even slated as a pitcher. Steve has never seen him actually pitch in real life and wonders if he’s all he’s cracked up to be.

 

"He asked to see warm up swings," Steve says aloud now, disrupting the conversation. He watches the teen pitcher do his stretches as their first batter, Victor “Vision” Nightshade, steps up to the plate. "...Why do you think that is?"

 

Sam and Clint trade looks before shrugging in unison. "I don't know what difference it would make," Sam comments. "It really just depends on his pitch, right?"

 

That isn’t necessarily true. It takes two to tango, so to speak. Sure, in this situation it’s mostly going to depend on Tony's skill, but a pitch is just a question waiting for the answer from the swing of a bat. It’s a relationship, and if Tony’s going to be successful on this bet he had going with Natasha, he’s going to have to understand both sides.

 

Twenty-four against one. Steve isn’t a fan of those odds, even though Tony deserves it for being such a disrespectful smart ass on his first day here. Doing the math quickly in his head, if none of them miss the pitches Tony throws, he's going to be here for an extra six hours. Every last player on the Avengers knew that Natasha will make Tony pay for every minute in blood, sweat, and tears.

 

Vision demonstrates his practice swing, holding out his arms to Tony in a faux bow. "Satisfied?"

 

Looking down the field, Tony Stark is no longer all smiles. Sunglasses removed and hat turned forwards to cast a shadow over his brow, he looks like a different player. Steve shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting between Vision and the newcomer, both of them poised and ready with Natasha filling in as catcher, glove at the ready.

 

 _Thump_.

 

The next thing Steve knows, Vision's bat has already swung through nothing but air, and the baseball is snug in their coach’s mitt. Everyone stares at Natasha, who looks just as surprised, before turning their heads to look at Tony. Steve can see a barely-there hint of a smile as he made a motion for the next player to step up. "Let's not waste any more time, boys. I don't plan on being here any longer than originally scheduled."

 

One by one, the Avengers step up, some of them the best batters Steve has ever played with.

 

And one by one, strikes are called as each and every player misses. Every ball Tony throws is deemed 100% fair, and before Steve knows it, he’s up.

 

Tony has out-pitched twenty-two of his teammates and Steve doesn’t think that he’s going to be any different. He glances towards Natasha who looks like she could melt the bat in his hands if she continues to glare holes into the aluminum. _Hit that ball out of the park, Steve,_ She’s thinking furiously in his direction as he steps up to the plate.

 

"What's up with the delay, Rogers?" Tony calls, tossing his ball into his glove repeatedly. "Gonna go powder your nose first?"

 

Steve shakes his head, refusing to let Tony's heckling get to him. He’s an expert when it comes to blocking out the negative calls he hears day in and day out during a game, and Tony is no different than the bullies in the stands. He’s going to fake Tony out with his swing, change his stance and his follow through completely. After his demonstration swing, he looks back at Natasha who is smirking, knowing exactly what he’s done.

 

Tony, however, is none the wiser. Steve takes his stance again, squaring his shoulders as his fingers clench around the handle of the bat. Tony's form twists as his arm pulls back and then snaps forward, the ball flying down the line. Steve lets his body follow it's natural, practiced swing, expecting that familiar crack as his bat connects with the baseball. He watches the ball come towards him, a curveball. Tony hasn’t thrown out too many of those so far, as that sort of pitch is too predictable and is actually one of the easier pitches to call early in a swing.

 

His bat completes its path with no resistance. Steve stumbles a bit, not expecting to miss. He turns his head in surprise, Natasha rising up from her crouch to return the ball to Tony.

 

A whistle comes from the mound as Steve, bewildered, steps down and joins the rest of his team. He stares down at his cleats in confusion, not needing to watch the last pitch to know that Tony isn’t spending a single second longer on the field than he had intended when waltzing in late today.

 

Natasha is completely speechless, looking at her team who are all hanging their heads in shame or openly staring at Tony like he’s some kind of alien. Tony's cool exterior has faded now that the bet has been won, his grin once again plastered on his face. "This means I get to leave early right?"

 

The redhead glares, her jaw clenched tightly. "Everyone back to running drills. Suicides until I call time," she snaps. The team, now including Tony, marches over to the foul lines to begin their suicide runs.

 

Steve keeps tabs on Tony for the rest of the practice. He runs fairly well, light on his feet just as Steve remembers from what he’d seen last year. He slides for bases a lot, and Tony has a compact enough body that as long as he has enough momentum going into it, he can get to a base in a pinch.

 

Tony is partnered with Rhodey for their running and catching drills, and Steve is definitely distracted as he watches how Tony throws and catches balls on the move. His dark eyes are like lighting, darting around from the ball in Rhodey's glove, to the sky between them, to the arc of Rhodey's arm, to the ball up in the air, back down to where Rhodey's dominant foot lands after his throw. His over-examination doesn’t go unnoticed, earning him a ball to the back of the head, thrown by Natasha instead of his partner Sam.

 

"Focus on your drills, Rogers," She reminds. "Leave it to me to watch what Stark does."

 

"Yes ma'am," Steve rubs his head in apology before turning his attention back to where it belonged: nowhere near Tony Stark.

 

He can’t help but be angry with Natasha, and he lets his frustration be known as soon as practice ends and the rest of the team hits the showers.

 

“How could you not tell me?” Steve asks in bewilderment, following Natasha into the stadium, the woman speed walking towards her office. Steve is covered in sweat from the rigorous practice, out of breath as he struggles to keep onto his coach’s heels. “ _Tony Stark_?! Of all people? Where do I even begin?!”

 

Natasha ignores him until they reach her office. She slams the door shut behind Steve. “Have a seat.”

 

“I’ll stand, thanks,” Steve retorts bitterly.

 

Now that it’s just the two of them, Natasha allows herself to slump down into her chair. He’s never seen her look quite this exhausted, even when she had to cut three players in ’88 due to non-recoverable injuries. Her office is currently a mess, which is out of character for the woman. Normally every piece of paperwork is neatly stacked and filed, but the room is a disaster of open folders and sticky notes.

 

“This was a last minute decision,” Natasha starts slowly, pressing her fingers into her temple. “Janet has been going back and forth with Pepper Potts since November. Tony apparently wanted to leave the Irons for another Triple-A team and both Fury and Van Dyne saw it as an opportunity. The kid wanted to keep it on the down low, and his old man and Fury go way back or something. Fury did it as a favor to Howard Stark.”

 

This doesn’t clear anything up for Steve. So it wasn’t that Tony had somehow gotten outsold and forced out of the Irons? “Why on earth would Tony want to switch teams? The Irons have been winning championship games for seasons now—and even that aside, it’s _his own team_. He could literally _inherit_ them one day.”

 

“Exactly,” Natasha sighs. “The way Janet laid it out to me… Tony is sick of the negative attention around the fact that he started playing for his father’s team with no prior baseball experience. While it’s obvious to most people he’s perfectly capable of handling himself in a Triple-A league—hell, he’d be great for the majors if he worked out a few personality kinks—he still gets criticism on whether or not there’s nepotism involved.”

 

That _is_ some sound logic to argue against. Steve is sure he’s probably had the same thoughts when thinking about the young Stark. “Okay… But even if he wanted to move on from the Irons, why not go to the MLB? Don’t try and tell me that he wouldn’t get drafted in a second if he were made available, ‘personality kinks’ aside.”

 

“Like I said, it was Tony’s call,” Natasha frowns, tapping her fingers on her arm rest. “I assume the point isn’t just to move on to something bigger and better to outgrow the family name. People would be just as outraged if Tony started playing for the majors considering all the controversy around how he approaches the game. The fans may love his _Rebel Without a Cause_ schtick, but many people in the majors don’t. I think what he wanted was to prove he could hack it on any team in the Triple-A League, no matter who owned it, and let’s face it, I think it was a good call.” Natasha looks as if she’s swallowing vinegar as she admits this opinion past her lips. “You can’t drop a kid that talented down anywhere lower than the league he’s at right now, it’d be goddamn ridiculous.”

 

Steve groans in frustration. “Why The Avengers though? Why _him_ , of all people? You’re making it seem like this is a part of some publicity stunt and I expect the team I’m playing for to have higher standards than that.” Steve isn’t trying to whine, he really isn’t. If this were any other player under any other circumstance, he could maybe let it go, but it’s Tony freaking Stark. _Why did it have to be him?_ “And none of you thought it might be a good idea to consult me as to what I think is best for the team? You appointed me as captain for a reason and then decided to go right over my head—”

 

“If you have any more issues,” Natasha interrupts. “You can take it up with Fury or Van Dyne, okay? This wasn’t my decision. All I know is that from where I sit, we needed a star pitcher and now we have one. My job isn’t to make sure Steve Rogers’ life is all sunshine and rainbows every single day. My job is to keep you lot in shape so The Avengers can keep winning games, got it?” She brushes her hair back from her face in frustration. “I’m sorry you weren’t made aware of this before today, I really am, but now you know and as captain of this team I expect you to be professional and move forward with this decision.”

 

Steve concedes, knowing that Nat’s right and there’s nothing more she can do, whether it’s give him the answers he wants or let him in on the fact that this all was some elaborate prank. He gets up to leave.

 

“Steve,” Natasha calls after him.

 

He pauses, hand on the knob. He can almost see a smile on her face, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

“You don’t have to like him.”

 

Steve scoffs, wrenching the door open. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF that was a lot of baseball, huh? I promise I won't be so heavy with sports scenes in the future, I just felt this was important to establish more thoroughly. Hope you guys made it through that okay.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos appreciated!! Hopefully I'll get chapter 3 up in the next week or two. ❤️ Thanks for reading!


	3. Strike Zone

March, 1990

 

The following practices don’t go much better than the first one. Tony is continually tardy, but doesn’t seem to mind staying late to work one-on-one with Natasha. Steve almost suspects they’re actually warming up to each other, and he hates the twist of anger inside of him when he actually spots them joking around together before the start of practice one day. It’s hardly like watching two familiar friends, but there’s almost a mutual sibling-like relationship he can see growing, Natasha shoving an undeterred Tony away by the face when he tries to flip through the pages on her clipboard.

 

He’s not a spiteful man. Quite the opposite, really. Steve doesn’t believe in holding grudges, not when you never knew where life would bring you next. From a young age he had learned to be grateful for every opportunity, every blessing he was given or earned. It did no one any good to linger on any kind of negative encounter, not with a world as big as theirs.

 

He and Tony hadn’t gotten off on the best foot upon their first meeting. The All-Star game had been tenuous circumstance, and Steve has to remind himself it’s not fair of him to judge Tony’s character during a high-profile event fueled by rivalry. The most he knows about Tony are things he learned second-hand, rumors that bounded down the grapevine as quickly as it could grow. Aside from an occasional lock of eyes during practices, Steve really hasn’t had any one-on-one time with Tony since he officially joined the Avengers. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s sort of afraid to. As if one more interaction will be able to confirm things about Tony’s personality that Steve knows he can’t get past with an amiable face.

 

But he’s the captain. And he has to try. Tony’s not exactly avoiding him, but he seems to not drift too closely to any of the other players. The team must feel the same, none of them engaging Tony more than necessary. Apparently Steve isn’t the only one with reservations. It seems like the only player Tony is actually seen interacting with beyond a casual hello in passing is Rhodes. In most of their warm up games, Rhodes takes his position as second baseman, directly behind Tony on the mound. He was like an intimidating shadow to the pitcher when looking down the middle of the diamond.

 

The team’s overall line-up hasn’t changed much this season. They lost only two players to retirement last season, and other than Tony the only new addition is a kid out of the premier league, a pinch runner, Pietro Maximoff. His position only being to sub out base runners when needed, he isn’t going to see every single game, but he’s easily the fastest runner Steve has ever seen in either league. It’s hard to get a career off the ground if you aren’t a fully well-rounded player, but even if Maximoff wouldn’t get recognized at the same skill level as those in the Majors, he’s a great addition to their team with his particular skill.

 

So the atmosphere is familiar this season. The entire team is close, and Maximoff is much easier to integrate into their group than the very confrontational Tony Stark. Steve makes a couple of attempts to each out to him, let him know he’s invited to any team outings after practices, or on their off days. The guys normally get together outside of the stadium to grab a beer or just go out to lunch.

 

Without fail, Tony rebuffs him every time. At least he’s consistent. Steve becomes more frustrated as the days pass, not sure why Tony is being so purposefully distant from all of them. Steve wants to chalk it up to just trying to adjust to the switch-up in his lifestyle. The kid was barely out of his teen years, and just moved across the country and away from his home team. That’s enough to set anyone off kilter.

 

The problem is that Tony’s cold shoulder feels selective. If he’s having trouble getting socially adjusted to his new environment, it’s not something he lets the rest of the world see. Steve starts to notice that Tony graces the tabloid section of the newsstand outside his apartment every other morning. It’s no wonder he keeps showing up to practice hungover when he’s apparently out partying with New York socialites every night.

 

At least the exhibition games are finally starting, meaning Steve will have a lot more to focus on than whatever Tony Stark gets up to after he leaves the Polo Grounds. It’s the eve before their first friendly against the Patriots from New Jersey, a team that almost bought Steve out from under the Avengers when he dropped out of the Majors. He almost expects Natasha to ease up this practice, but she’s just as hard on their drills as she always is. The woman doesn’t believe in levity.

 

“Alright, circle up!” Natasha calls out after blowing her whistle. The team all trudges over to where she’s standing in front of the dugout, sharing the mutual desire for a shower. Steve himself can’t wait to let the cold water wash away all the sweat and dirt he had gathered up during the practice, pretty sure he can still taste grass in the back of his molars from diving drills. “First announcement is that this season the MiLB is trying out something new. We’re going to have international friendlies for the first time this year. We’ll still be participating within the International League as normal, but about a third of our exhibition games are going to be against teams from the PCL.”

 

She pauses to let this sink in. There’s already some excited and surprised sounds amongst the players. Steve had been told about this beforehand, but he almost forgets the MiLB is doing this sort of trial run. Normally, the pre-season games are only against teams within your own district, but this is an exciting switch up.

 

“This will mean a little more traveling this season, but we should be thankful for the opportunity. Not every team is participating, but we will get the chance to play against a couple of other teams for these friendlies. The PCL games will be at the end of the month, after we’ve played our regular IL games. The itinerary for the international friendlies will start with a couple of teams over on the West Coast, California and Arizona first. We’ll then fly to Texas for another match or two before coming home.”

 

When California is mentioned, almost everyone (with varying degrees of subtlety) glances Tony’s way. Would they be up against the Irons? Steve doesn't know the exact details yet, and it's entirely possible that they’d have to go against Tony’s home team. Steve is standing behind Tony, so he can’t see his expression, but the man looks unnaturally still.

 

Natasha clears her throat. “Now, back to the immediate future, I made some last minute adjustments to the roster, so everyone listen in case you’ve moved. Starting out, Quill and Odinson, you guys are swapped for left and center field— Zip it Quill, I’m not scared to bench you— Banner, you’re still right field. Strange, you’re pitching…”

 

Steve is a bit surprised by that. Sure, maybe Natasha is planning on bringing Tony in as a relief pitcher, but this is their debut exhibition game. It doesn't count towards the actual season, but half of the reason for having these pre-season matchups is to put your best foot forward and show those watching what your team has to offer. The news that Tony had switched teams spread like wildfire once paparazzi started spotting him coming in and out of their stadium. It would be idiotic not to have Tony front and center on that pitcher’s mound at the start of the game, and Natasha does not make idiotic decisions.

 

“...Stark is on shortstop, Wilson is on third, and as always, Shade is catching. Subs might change by tomorrow morning, as always, there will be no questions, and you all can get out of my sight because you’re all goddamn filthy. Dismissed.”

 

Steve doesn’t move off the field, staring at his coach while the crowd dissipates. Natasha walks over to talk to the groundskeepers who are already starting their work to make the field presentable for tomorrow’s home game, Steve quickly chasing after her. “You pulled me from shortstop?” He asks in bewilderment.

 

“ _No questions_ still applies to you, Captain,” Natasha sings, but still turns to give him her attention, expression indifferent. “It’s not like you to get all upset over not starting.”

 

“I'm not,” Steve immediately denies, only then realizing that his name hadn’t been called at all. “But why is Tony on shortstop? Why not pitcher?”

 

Natasha’s eyes roll into the back of her head, never a fan of Steve interrogating her about decisions she’s made. To be fair, they’re supposed to be on the same page most of the time, a cohesive pair as Coach and Captain of the team. “As hilarious as it was to see his hissy fit on television at the All-Star game last year, you have to admit he did a great job as SS. Obviously, this is going to stay between you and me, but I’m not planning on letting him step foot on that mound _at all_ during the pre-season.”

 

Steve’s eyebrows rocket up to his hairline. “You can’t be serious. He’s a _pitcher_ , Nat.

 

“Stark is a wasted player to me if I only let him do one thing. I want to move Tony around during the exhibitions and see how far I can push his potential. It’s also a test for his patience. I want to see if he’ll still perform at his best even if he’s not getting his way,” She crosses her arms, Steve practically shrinking under her hard gaze. “I know what I’m doing, Steve. I told you to let me worry about Stark, so don’t question me again on this again, understand?”

 

Steve nods guiltily, knowing that he shouldn’t have gotten as up-in-arms as he did. “Am I playing at all tomorrow?” He tries to keep the disappointment out of his tone. The last thing he wants to do is get on her bad side.

 

Natasha’s poise melts a little and she sighs. “We’ll see. I don’t want to play you in every game for right now. We want to give that knee of yours some TLC as long as we can before we really need you for the actual season. Just rest up, okay? You’ll see the field when I know it’s worth it. Now hit the showers already, you smell awful.”

 

* * *

 

Steve leaves the stadium feeling exhausted and defeated. Tony Stark really is going to be the death of him. All he wants is to go home and wish he didn't have to see the kid's smug face tomorrow while he takes his preferred position. He has his head down as he trudges out towards his motorcycle, almost bumping into someone had he not raised his head a fraction of a second before collision.

 

"Oh, excuse m—" Steve blinks, utterly shocked. "Peggy?"

 

Peggy looks as equally surprised. He hasn't seen her in person since the last time he left her office after being dismissed from the Stars and that was about three years ago. "Steve!" she greets with a smile once the shock has subsided. She hugs him and he welcomes the embrace. She pulls away, holding him at arm’s length. "You look good. I hear you're captain of this team now," she's beaming at him and he feels a swell of pride.

 

"Yes I am," he nods, then remembers what he read in the papers yesterday morning. "Never mind my promotion, what about yours? Congratulations! I mean, the first woman to ever own a major league baseball team? It's literally going down in the history books. So well-deserved, Peg, I'm really happy for you."

 

Peggy's smile was bashful now and she waves a hand. "Thank you, thank you. It's a shame that Chester's condition has only worsened, but I'm very happy he chose to leave the team in my hands rather than just sell it off to the top bidder."

 

"Well no one's more capable than you. Chester made the right decision," his smile fades a little. "So he's not doing so well, huh?"

 

Peggy grimly presses her lips together. "Doctors said he only has a few months left. Five, if he's lucky."

 

"I'm sorry, Peggy," Steve says somberly. He knew that Chester and Peggy had been working together since the very beginning. A legacy is certainly ending.

 

"It's alright. The real problem in my lap now is to try and find a capable enough manager," she laughs then jokingly adds. "You want to interview for the position?"

 

Steve laughs it off, even if a small part of his brain is intrigued by the idea. "I don't know the first thing about managing a team. You and Janet make it seem so much easier than it is, I wouldn't even know what to expect." They share another laugh, then Steve notices Peggy look over his shoulder for a moment. "So... what are you doing here anyway? If you're looking for Natasha I think she's already left."

 

"Oh, no, I'm getting lunch with my nephew. He wanted to celebrate my new title," she chuckles and checks her watch. "I should be used to him running late by now honestly— Oh, there he is."

 

Realization suddenly dawns of Steve right as he hears footsteps echoing from behind him. Of course. How did he not figure it out sooner?

 

"Aunt Peg!" he hears from behind him. Tony Stark shoots him a look of disgust as he brushes past him to get to Peggy, the glare immediately replaced with a dazzling smile for the woman. He gives her a tight hug and a kiss on each cheek. "There she is, the most valuable woman in the MLB!"

 

"Stop it, you," she rolls her eyes and hits his arm playfully with her handbag.

 

Tony looks between the two. "You guys know each other?"

 

"Yes, actually. Steve used to play for the Stars, Darling, surely you know that."

 

Tony just shrugs, brushing Steve off. "You ready to go? Got reservations at your favorite place."

 

Peggy nods and squeezes Steve's arm. "It was really good to see you again, Steve. We really should catch up sometime soon."

 

Tony was standing behind Peggy looking impatient but still somehow smug. This kid was taking over his team's attention, his own preferred defensive position on the field, all of Steve's patience, and now this. Steve draws a line in the sand. He doesn't get Peggy too.

 

"Why not now?" Steve suggests, raising his eyebrows at Tony. "I'm sure you can afford another plate on the bill, right?"

 

"Brilliant idea!" Peggy claps her hands together. "Is that okay with you, Tony? Steve and I go way back."

 

Steve watches the tendons in Tony's neck tighten but he just smiles. "Anything for you, Aunt Peg. Happy dropped you off right? My car's a two-seater so Rogers will have to follow on his bicycle." He winks at Steve. "Try to keep up."

 

Steve smiles tightly. "I'll do my best."

 

Peggy follows Tony over to his sports car, the engine revving loudly before Tony pulls out of the stadium parking lot. Steve rolls his eyes at the power display and kicks his bike into gear, following behind them. Tony certainly does his best to lose Steve on the short, fifteen-minute drive to the restaurant, an Italian place called Donatella's, but Steve stays right on his tail the entire way.

 

"Goodness, Tony, you drive like such a maniac. You're going to kill yourself one of these days," Steve can hear Peggy saying as the two walk to the doors. Tony holds the door open for the woman before letting it swing shut right as Steve walks up. He rolls his eyes at the childish act, wrenching the door open himself.

 

That initial act is a precursor for the rest of dinner, Tony clearly drawing a line in the sand from the beginning. He dominates most of the conversation, interrupts Steve’s sentences, and pretty much tunes out as soon as Peggy addresses Steve directly. He has to admit that the kid is an ace with social nuance, knowing exactly how to carefully lay out one quip after the other, the comments appearing as harmless teasing to Peggy while purposefully dealing blows to Steve’s esteem and patience.

 

Steve is actually surprised when Peggy asks for Tony to wait in the car while she talks to Steve. He hasn’t ever really seen the kid lose his cool before, but he was unable to hide the twitch in his jaw at Peggy’s request. Steve tries to contain his own grin, ducking his head as Peggy walks over to his motorcycle with him, her hand on his back.

 

“It was really good to see you again, Steve,” she says, smiling warmly up at him. “I apologize it’s been so long… I know you didn’t leave the Stars on the best terms… I realize I never apologized for how things ended,” she sighs, eyes softening. “I am truly sorry. I could see how unhappy you were after Barnes retired, but I’m glad that didn’t stop you completely.”

 

Steve nods, sharing her bittersweet smile. Whatever disputes they had about Steve’s exit, it’s in the past. “All is forgiven, Peggy. I miss the Stars all the time, but I don’t think I miss the majors as much as I thought I would.”

 

“Good, good,” Peggy straightens up a little, brushing something nonexistent off Steve's shoulder. An old habit he remembers her doing to all the players when she was doing her best to be casual about congratulating their performance. “I really do think you’ve found your place with the Avengers. How is Barnes, by the way? I haven’t heard much about him since… Well, everything.”

 

“That’s how he likes it,” Steve chuckles, smiling fondly thinking of his best friend. “He’s good. He’s happy for me. For himself too.”

 

He can almost see the weight get lifted off Peggy’s shoulders. He had always been so absorbed in his and Buck’s own feelings about the matter that he never really considered that maybe it was harder on their manager than he had thought. “Glad to hear that… Well, I should get going,” she peeks over her shoulder at where Tony is parked, fiddling with something on his dashboard as he waits with a furrowed brow. Steve is surprised he hasn’t laid on the horn yet. “We need to catch up just the two of us soon though.”

 

“You know where to find me,” Steve says with a smile, leaning against his bike.

 

“That I do. Have a good night, Steve.”

 

“Bye, Peg,” he watches her cross the parking lot to where Tony’s been waiting. He doesn’t miss the glare Tony shoots his way as he pulls out of the lot, speeding back onto the road. As if they hadn’t needed anymore points of contention, of course fate had to throw one more stick into Steve’s wheel spokes.

 

“So is Peggy your aunt by blood, or marriage?”

 

Tony looks up at Steve from where he’s sitting on a bench in the locker room, bent over to tie his cleats. He’s got a sour look on his face, brow furrowed and nose wrinkled as if Steve is a particularly smelly jockstrap he just discovered in the bottom of his bag. Steve thinks that he could at least _try_ to pretend he’s not entirely repulsed by the unprompted conversation. Everyone is bustling around the locker room in preparation for their first exhibition game, no one noticing the sharp line of tension between the two.

 

He almost doesn’t expect Tony to respond, watching the young man roll his eyes before pulling his other foot up onto the edge of the bench to finish tightening his laces. Steve closes his locker, now dressed in the team’s casual kit. Natasha confirmed with him this morning that he won’t be playing today, and honestly, Steve won’t mind getting the chance to watch from the sidelines and focus on all the strengths and weaknesses his team is going to show today. It's a brand new season, and he's not going to let Tony’s upturned nose and venomous glares get him down.

 

“Neither,” Tony finally speaks up over the din of the locker room. He’s still got a grimace on his face, almost like he can’t believe he’s humoring his Captain enough with a response. His eyes are trained on his cleats that Steve’s watched him re-lace about three times now. “She’s technically my _Godmother_ , but neither her nor my folks are particularly religious, so we kind of forgo that title. I guess her and Howard go way back or something; She’s been around since I was a baby. I don’t have much in the way of family on either of my parents’ sides, so I’ve always thought of her as my Aunt,” he shrugs.

 

Steve thinks that those are the most words Tony has ever spoken to him at once that weren’t underhanded jibes or flat-out insults.

 

Tony then swears under his breath, dropping his laces in frustration. Steve almost steps forward to offer his help, but Rhodes quickly swoops out of the whirl of moving bodies around them to save the day. “Tone, what the hell are you doing? Here, I got you.” The dark-skinned man crouches down next to the bench.

 

“I don’t—” Tony starts to complain, but James is already making quick work of his stubborn laces. “...Thanks, Rhodey.”

 

“Hey, I don’t need Nat chewing me out asking what’s taking you so long,” he teases. They share a fond smile and Steve lets himself drift out of the locker room, leaving whatever brief moment of respite he and Tony had behind.

 

Tony plays the entire game as shortstop. He’s predictably incredible throughout all nine innings, providing assists when needed and not letting a single ball get away from him. Steve can’t even be angry about the holier-than-thou looks Tony keeps throwing his way with how well the game goes. They win by a wide margin, the final score coming out 8-2.

 

The entire team is going out for celebratory drinks after. Steve is so wrapped up in making sure all his players get their well-earned praise and critiques for their performance that he almost misses Tony slipping out of the locker room after his shower.

 

“Tony!” Steve calls, chasing him down as the boy tries to make his escape to the parking lot. Tony looks like he’s going to try and ignore Steve completely, but no one else is around in the long stretch of hallway leading out to the parking lot.

 

“What?” He asks flatly, turning to glare at Steve. “I don’t need your little post-game praises.”

 

“Wasn’t going to give them,” Steve answers honestly, realizing too late how the comment comes off. He pushes past it, not all that bothered considering how Tony is the one constantly opening with barbed comments. “The team’s going out for drinks. You haven’t really come along to any of the get-togethers and I, erm, think you could have a good time if you came.” Steve isn’t a very good liar, so he can’t risk expressing to Tony that he _wants_ him there, knowing how unconvincing that would sound.

 

Tony rolls his eyes and Steve has to clench his fist at the side so he can fight the primal reaction to punch him. If he has to see Tony roll those goddamn eyes one more time when he’s just trying to be nice, he’s not so sure he’ll be able to hold back that violent instinct he _knows_ his absolutely uncalled for. “Yeah, there’s a reason for that. I’d rather shove a fork in my eye than have to sit around a table and endure uninspiring small talk over cheap beers in some shitty dive bar while we watch Barton fail at trying to pick up women. But you guys have fun,” he walks away from Steve again, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder.

 

It’s weeks later, and Steve is still irate about it. He tries hard not to be, he _really_ does, but even when it’s just him and Bucky at their favorite bar, he finds himself recounting all of his Tony-centric complaints. The man deserves a medal for sitting through all of Steve’s ranting.

 

“Well, he sounds like a right brat, Steve, but you really shouldn’t get so worked up over it,” Bucky advises, shaking his head. “Seriously, why do you let him get under your skin so bad?”

 

He never appreciates the kind of people who act the way Tony does— an entitled bully who can’t be bothered by anything or anyone— but there’s something extra infuriating about Tony’s behavior that really brings out the worst in him. Maybe it’s their leftover history from the All-Star game from last Summer. At the time, Tony hadn’t really stood out in his memories. He still tends to shy away from too much baseball talk in his personal life. Once he leaves that stadium, Steve doesn’t read the papers or tune in his radio to hear people talk about whatever the current hot topic is in the league. Apparently for the past couple years, Tony Stark has been _the_ hot topic. Maybe all the gab about him has rooted somewhere deep in Steve’s subconscious, slowly building up a distaste for his new teammate without him even realizing.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve eventually sighs, draining the last of his beer. Tomorrow morning the Avengers are all piling on a plane and flying all the way to Bakersfield, California to begin their International exhibition games. The teams they’ll be playing against were finalized only last week, and everyone had been disappointed they didn’t have a game against the Irons. Steve sincerely doubts it’s for any reason other than wanting to see Tony’s reaction. “I think I just don’t know how to _handle_ him. I’m the Captain of the team, and I can’t even get through to _one_ trouble-maker?”

 

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Bucky scolds, slinging an arm over the back of their booth. “Some people don’t wanna be helped, y’know?”

 

Steve can’t help but smile knowingly at him. “Maybe he’s kinda like someone else I know then.”

 

Bucky flicks him behind the ear, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t you dare compare me to that chucklefuck. Besides, I get away with it because I’m your best friend, and also not a _total_ prick. Why bother trying to find the good in Stark if you and him aren’t ever gonna be close like you and me are?”

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Steve laments, signaling once more towards the bar for another round of drinks.

 

* * *

 

"You're invited over for dinner."

 

Steve almost drops the barbell on his chest. The weights tip to one side and Tony dodges out of the way while Thor, his spotter, grabs the barbell from him and carefully sets it on the rack. Steve sits up, a little out of breath. "What?"

 

Tony stands by the bench press, arms crossed, looking as uncomfortable as Steve has ever seen him. He continues to stand there with furrowed brow until Thor takes his cue to leave, only speaking again once he can tell everyone else in their hotel’s gym is out of earshot. "What were you doing just then, three hundred?"

 

"Three twenty-five," Steve corrects. "Now what was that about dinner?"

 

Tony sighs and rolls his eyes so hard his head tips back towards the ceiling and stays there. "My old man wanted to invite you over to our house for dinner."

 

Steve raises his eyebrows, a slight grin on his face. "Are you expecting me to decline that kind offer?"

 

Tony keeps his eyes firmly on the rafters above them, a tendon on his neck seeming to pop out. "Would you accept a thousand-dollar bribe?"

 

Steve stands up, grabbing a towel off the weight rack to sling around his neck. "I don't really care about money all that much, believe it or not."

 

A deep sigh escapes Tony as his chin tips back down towards the ground. "That's what I was worried about." His eyes meet Steve's—god, is he pouting? "Dinner's this Saturday, after the first game. The house is in Malibu, so it's a bit of a drive, but—" Tony lets out another exaggerated sigh, his teeth grinding together as he gets the next part out. "We'd love to have your company."

 

Steve can’t help but laugh, his hand coming down on Tony's shoulder much to the shorter man's surprise. "Can't wait."

 

Tony sourly pushes Steve's hand off before turning and walking out of the gym. Steve shakes his head with a smile before returning to his workout. It had been fun to watch Tony squirm about the fact that his parents put him up to inviting Steve over, but then he starts to really sweat, and not because of the amount of reps he had been doing.

 

Howard Stark is extending a very personal invitation to him. The last time the two had talked, Tony wasn't even in the picture, and Howard was drunk and raving over how big of a fan he was. Steve is going into this dinner already on a pedestal, and even if it is just a friendly invitation, that pedestal is automatically placed in the lion's den because of Howard's son.

 

By the time Saturday rolls around, Steve's nerves have ebbed only slightly. They tie their scrimmage in Bakersfield, not the most encouraging start to their first International friendly, but at least it doesn’t mean anything towards league play. Both teams had been unfamiliar with one another, but Steve supposes that’s the point.

 

A knock comes to his suite's door and Steve has to check his tie in the mirror one more time before answering.

 

Tony stands in the hallway wearing a faded Pepsi-Cola t-shirt and jeans with a rip in the knee. "You're overdressed." He observes blankly.

 

Steve's nerves peak and he stares down at his button-up and khakis. "I can change—"

 

"Nope," Tony says, already striding down the hall towards the elevator. Steve has no choice but to follow.

 

There are fans in the lobby when they leave, both of them stopping to sign a few things and shake a few hands on their way out. Steve has gotten so used to Tony’s chilly exterior, that he almost forgets how good he is with people. It’s also easy to forget that despite all the controversy, there are plenty of people out there who like Tony— _Love him_ , even. Normally when a beloved player transfers teams of their own volition (usually driven by money), the fan base reacts poorly. If anything, Tony’s secret stunt of leaving the Avengers had only increased his popularity. Steve has caught glimpses of Tony’s fans before or after games, and they’re definitely… passionate. As if one could consider yelling marriage proposals and public indecency for the sake of flashing the publicly-proclaimed ladies’ man anything other than _passionate_.

 

Hotel security eventually forces the crowd to dissipate, letting them exit quietly out a back door. Tony leads him towards what might be the oldest car on the lot.

 

Steve stands there in awe as Tony gets into the driver’s seat. "Is this a Shelby Cobra?" He blurts, still surprised Tony isn’t cruising around in some newer, European model.

 

Tony looks at him through a narrowed but interested gaze. "You know cars?"

 

Steve gives a half-shrug. "I know a fair amount. More of a bike guy myself, but... I know _old_ cars." Steve walks along the length of the car before getting in. The interior is altered and looks much more high tech than the exterior. Steve runs his hand along the dashboard, a glowing touch screen control panel installed, replacing where there’s normally buttons and knobs. "This isn't— Is this a '62?"

 

Tony _actually_ smiles at him, possibly for the first time ever. "CSX2000," he says proudly, turning the key in the ignition. The sound of the motor roaring to life is orchestral. "One of the few original models still around. I've pretty much gutted and enhanced the engine, but everything else is original, even the upholstery."

 

"Nice," Steve breathes, immediately buckling his seat belt when Tony screeches onto the highway, already speeding. "You should put on your seat belt."

 

Tony glances at him sideways, scoffs, and cranks up the stereo.

 

They ride like that all the way into Malibu, Steve busying himself with looking around at the California scenery. If Tony doesn’t want to hold conversation, that’s perfectly fine with him. Honestly, with the amount of vehement hatred that’s normally aimed his way, Steve prefers Tony’s CDs of screeching guitars and powerful vocals (though he did wish the volume was turned down a couple of notches). After about an hour of driving, Tony pulls off the highway and onto a more isolated two-way street winding into the mountains. They get further and further away from the city, Tony turning down the classic rock as they roll up to a massive electronic gate. Steve can hear the ocean's waves from here as Tony punches in the code to let them in.

 

When Tony had invited Steve over, he definitely used the word “ _house_ ”. It becomes immediately apparent that “ _house”_ is not the proper term here. Mansion, maybe. Estate, probably the most accurate. There are spotlights pointed on the three-story, gleaming white house sitting atop a cliff, overlooking the Pacific. There is a huge fountain in the middle of the circular driveway where they park, an impressive garden lining the front yard.

 

Tony takes the steps two at a time, opening up one of the two massive front doors, gesturing for Steve to step inside. Steve walks hesitantly into the foyer, struggling to keep his jaw from dropping to the shining marble floor. He’s greeted right away by a chandelier as large as his childhood bedroom and a grand staircase curving upwards towards the second floor.

 

"Oh mother, oh father, I return with a guest!" Tony calls into the house, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

 

A woman emerges from the arched doorway underneath the stairwell, carrying a large platter in her hands. "Anthony!" she greets in elation, sweeping towards them in a long dress the color of dark sapphire, the plunging neckline accentuated with thin ropes of silver necklaces stacked atop one another. Her blonde hair is shoulder length and perfectly curled, and while Steve can tell she’s probably at least twenty years younger than Howard, she still wears makeup to emulate a woman much younger than that. "I made hors d’oeuvres!”

 

"Mom, you've never made hors d’oeuvres in your life," Tony sighs, wearing a warm smile.

 

The woman ignores Tony's comment and sets down the platter before reaching out to pull her son into a hug. To Steve's surprise, Tony hugs her back tightly, fiercely even, kissing her on both cheeks in greeting. "Mom, this is Steve Rogers. Rogers, the wonderful woman who birthed me."

 

"Maria Stark," she introduces herself, ignoring Steve's outstretched hand in favor of a hug. She greets him the same way Tony had greeted her, wiping a smudge of lipstick off Steve’s cheek with her thumb after she pulls back. "It's a pleasure to have you over for dinner tonight. Howard is just finishing a phone call in his study and will join us momentarily."

 

Tony scoffs under his breath. "He invites us over and can't even be punctual?"

 

"You're fifteen minutes late, sweetheart. Don't pretend you don't know where you get it from," Maria says sweetly, pinching his cheek. "Steve, darling, would you like any cheese and crackers?"

 

"Yes, thank you, ma'am," Steve accepts some of the hors d’oeuvres off the plate. Crackers and cheese seems almost too simple for this kind of family, even with the cheese coming in perfect spherical form, sitting on seasoned crackers in the shape of flowers. He follows after Tony and Maria through a doorway to the right of the house, into their parlor. The room has huge windows, as did every other room in the house, and a large faux fur rug in the middle of the floor. There is an enormous fireplace underneath a large portrait of their family, immediately drawing Steve closer. It seems a few years old, Tony grinning handsomely, not a hint of teenage unrefinement in his features. Steve is painfully jealous while looking around at a few of the other pictures of a young Tony in the room. The kid never had an awkward stage it seems.

 

"Have a seat, please," Maria says, sitting down on a leather ottoman. Steve takes a seat on the couch across from her while Tony strolls around the room. "Are you originally from New York, Steve?”

 

Steve nods. “Yes, ma’am, born and raised in Brooklyn.”

 

“I’m from Southampton, myself. I miss Long Island every day, but I’ve grown quite fond of the West Coast.”

 

"Is that why you're always jetting off to literally anywhere else?” Tony asks from across the room, picking up some sort of glass blown decoration off an end table. “Usually to get away from Howard…”

 

Maria just laughs at the barb, "Says the boy who hijacked our private jet last year to spend his Thanksgiving in Cabo when you two got in an argument over which resort served the best turkey."

 

Tony smirks, finally walking over to sit on the armrest next to Steve. "You did join me," he points out.

 

Maria brushes her hair behind her shoulder. "Well of course I did, everyone knows Mission Point's chefs are much better than La Lanterna's. Your father was being absolutely _ridiculous_."

 

They share a laugh at the memory and start to argue about the semantics of that particular holiday. It’s fascinating watching Tony’s cool exterior seemingly melt away as he chats with Maria. Tony seems to have this sort of bickering repertoire with everyone he engages in conversation with, with every word careful and calculated in attempt to get a rise out of the other person while he himself remains impervious. How he talks with his mother feels completely different. Steve supposes no one would know him better than she.

 

It makes him miss Sarah.

 

A door opens from behind them, Howard now entering the room. "Sorry about that, everyone, conference call from China ran long." He’s wearing a three-piece suit, making it evident that Steve was not as inappropriately dressed as Tony tried to make him believe.

 

"Steve!" Howard bursts with excitement, striding across the room. "It's been way too long, how are you, lad?"

 

"I'm great, sir," Steve says, standing to meet the vigorous handshake he knew was coming. "Thank you for inviting me for dinner."

 

"Well thank you for coming," Howard says with a grin, patting Steve on the arm. He looks mostly the same as last time Steve saw him, maybe his smile lines and the grey in his hair a bit more pronounced. "I believe dinner's ready, shall we make our way into the dining room?"

 

Steve follows after the Starks, his eyes glancing Tony's way as they fall into step behind his parents. Howard hadn't even so much as looked at Tony, let alone greet his son in any way. Any affection Tony carried in his expression thanks to Maria now melts into an unreadable impasse as they walk through the halls.

 

The interior of the house continues to look exactly how one would expect a California mansion to look, with the addition of beautiful art pieces _everywhere_. Steve wonders if he can get a tour of the house post-meal, just so he can gawk over some of the masterpieces hanging on their walls. With the money this family seems to carry, he fully expects that all of them are bonafide pieces.

 

The dining room is against the back wall of the house, floor to ceiling windows showcasing the ocean below. As Steve walks closer to examine the view, he can see a winding staircase leading down the cliff side to a nice private beach. He also spots an additional building further down the way. It’s completely dark, unlike the rest of the lit mansion. There’s large industrial sliding doors on one side of the smaller building, making Steve wonder what it could possibly be.

 

"Quite the view, huh?" Howard asks, sidling up next to Steve with his hands in his pockets as he looks out over the ocean.

 

"It's amazing. I'm so used to looking out windows and seeing nothing but city," Steve replies honestly, tearing his gaze away from the setting sun on the horizon as a man enters the room with a cart carrying a pitcher of water, a couple of bottles of wine, and a bottle of brandy.

 

The table is almost comically long, to the point that Steve has to wonder if it was assembled in pieces or if tables could actually be manufactured at that length. He also has to wonder where the hell someone found a tablecloth long enough to cover it.

 

"Table cloth is custom made," Tony whispers, somehow reading Steve's mind as he takes his seat.

 

Howard sits at the head of the table, with Maria on his left side. Tony has chosen the place setting as far away from Howard as possible, leaving Steve to sit in between the two. He takes a seat as their server first fills their glasses with water, then pours wine for everyone except Howard, who is given the entire bottle of brandy and a snifter. Steve also doesn’t miss when Tony signals for the man to tip the wine bottle a little more until his wine glass is significantly full. Neither Maria nor Howard make a comment.

 

“You okay with seafood, Steve?” Howard asks, filling his glass with the brandy. “I believe lobster’s on the menu tonight.”

 

“Crab,” Maria corrects. “But there’s steak as well if you prefer that.”

 

Steve smiles. “I’m fine with anything, but I am more of a steak and potatoes kind of guy.”

 

“So American,” Tony snorts into his wine glass—when did he have time to already drink half of it?

 

No one else at the table seems to hear Tony’s comment before the servers are coming back out with soups and salads to choose from, as well as a large pool of melted cheese and slices of perfectly toasted bread. Tony takes a ladle and fills his soup bowl with the cheese mix, and then loads his salad plate up with the bread.

 

"The art you have hanging up is amazing," Steve compliments as the rest of them start on their salads. "Was that a genuine Klimt I saw in the foyer?"

 

Maria lights up. "You have a good eye."

 

Howard smiles at him, placing his hand proudly on his wife's arm. "Maria here is an art dealer when she's not busy feeding the poor and building schools for underprivileged kids."

 

The woman laughs, shaking her head. "Don't let Howard hyperbolize me. I run a large charity foundation is all."

 

"Largest in the U.S.," Howard is quick to point out. "Most generous woman on earth in my eyes."

 

"Howard,  _stop_."

 

Conversation continues, the servers coming out to refill water and wine glasses when necessary, and with this family, wine refills seemed very necessary. As Howard is delving into his up and coming ideas for new batting helmets, Steve notices Tony draining yet another wine glass out of the corner of his eye. Their hired hands are back within moments once everyone seems to be done with the appetizers, taking away salad plates and replenishing glasses as the main course comes out. Steve has hardly touched his own drink and Tony is already starting on glass number five.

 

"Enough about business. Steve, how has it been being captain?" Howard asks.

 

“To be honest, a little overwhelming,” Steve chuckles. “I honestly never really thought I had what it takes to be captain of a team, but the Avengers have been like family to me the past few seasons. I’m honored to take on the role.”

 

“This is dinner, not a fucking interview,” Tony grumbles under his breath, taking another swig from his wine glass.

 

“If you don’t have something nice to say, Tony…” Maria chides. Though the reminder is soft, there’s a glint in her eyes that shows she’s not to be defied. Tony rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue against it further. “But of course, you don’t have to be so formal with us, Steve,” she says, adapting her son’s crude observation into a much kinder suggestion. “The real question is: what’s it like coaching our son? I imagine he’s more than a handful for even the strictest captain.”

 

“It’s, um…” Steve glances over towards Tony who’s cracking open his crab legs with his bare hands, a couple of small shell chunks scattering across the table. He seals his lips around the edge of the leg meat with a fervor, expertly slurping it out in one piece like he’s done it a million times. Steve is still fumbling with all the special silverware that came out with the meal, which was completely disregarded by the twenty-year old sitting next to him. “...A challenge. But challenges are rewarding after all.”

 

He hears Tony snort from beside him, but he doesn’t comment otherwise. His mouth is too full of crab meat to bother, apparently. That, or he was still following Maria’s instruction to keep ill-mannered comments to himself.  “That sounds about right,” Howard huffs. “Tony here always did have trouble with authority.” Tony remains silent, keeping his eyes stubbornly on the table.

 

“Well, sometimes, that’s what makes a ball player great,” Steve chimes in, sensing Tony’s eyes slide over to him almost suspiciously. Someone at this table needs to offer some positivity, and Steve isn't under the impression that it is going to be anyone with the last name Stark. “A lot of the times, following the rules can actually hinder more than help. There’s nothing wrong with a little rebellion from time to time.”

 

“You hear that, Tony?” Howard asks. “ _A little_ , being the operative amount there. I swear, it’s like his sole purpose in life is to bend things until they break.”

 

“Yes, well, I wonder where he might’ve gotten that from, dear,” Maria says. Even though she’s smiling, it comes across cold.

 

Tony’s full on glaring down at his plate now, mashing a lemon wedge into a pulp with one of the many fancy forks provided. Maybe trying to shine a positive light on the kid’s behavioral issues wasn’t the best method. Steve really has no idea how to handle Tony, on or off the field.

 

“Tony has, um, he’s been doing pretty well in the Triple-A’s, at least,” Steve continues meekly, the air around the ridiculously-sized dining table growing more hostile by the second. “It might’ve been a management issue, maybe. I know tons of players who can be a little rough around the edges until they get the right kind of team surrounding them and are able to really shine.”

 

“See?” Maria’s looking to her husband.“I knew it had to have been the Irons. And you know, I never really liked that Stane. He’s been _way_ too hard on Tony even before he joined the team officially.”

 

Howard scoffs. “Stane is a great man and an incredible coach, not to mention part of the reason we have all of this,” he gestured around to their mansion. “The Irons are going to stay the best team in the majors, and once the season begins everyone will see it’s not because of one egotistical brat.”

 

“That ‘egotistical brat’ is your _son_ , Howard. A son that, might I remind, you yourself built up to be the face of the team and possible future helm of the empire that you care so much about. So maybe you should try looking in the reflection of that finished-silver crab dish in front of you to see where he got that damn ego from in the first place.”

 

Steve sits frozen as a beat of silence falls over them, save for the sound of Tony digging around in the body of the crustacean on his plate to get the best meat out. Steve watches as he takes another sip from his wine glass, staring straight ahead like this is just a regular family dinner for him. Steve then realizes that it probably is.

 

“I’m sorry,” Maria apologizes, but it’s not directed at Howard. “Where are our manners, Steve? We were talking about you after all.”

 

“He’s probably used to things being made about Tony,” Howard sighed, dragging a finger along the rim of his glass.

 

Maria’s smiling tightly, still looking at Steve. “Howie, Darling, can we please drop this already? You haven’t even asked your son how he likes his new team yet.”

 

Howard just grunts and cuts into his steak, apparently not even interested enough to ask. Tony has slumped down in his chair, swirling the same piece of crab in the dipping sauce in even little circles.

 

Steve clears his throat awkwardly. “There’s always a learning curve to switching teams, but Tony’s doing really well. The players are beginning to warm up to his… quirks. Even Coach Romanoff—”

 

“What about you?” Howard interrupts. “Can’t imagine even a man with your character can stand to be so patient with such a problem child.”

 

It’s hard to hear someone talk about Tony that way, and becomes even harder when it’s coming from the man’s father himself. Sure, Steve and Tony aren’t exactly chums. They have their issues, and there are some days where Steve just wanted to snap and call Tony out for all the things Howard had been doing all night. However, no matter how infuriating or obscene Tony acted, he’s still a part of the team, and Steve would never undercut his own player in that way.

 

Howard waves around some steak on the end of his fork, pointing it specifically at Tony now. “All I know is, you better not be disrespecting your captain the way you disrespected me, kid.”

 

“Why don’t you give him some advice on how to deal with me then, huh? The tried-and-true Howard Stark method?” Tony finally snaps, breaking his vow of silence. He tosses another broken leg onto the dish in the center of the table, Steve only just now noticing how much crab Tony had gone through in his efforts to remain quiet. The small mountain of hollow crab shells toppled and spilled onto the table, the integrity cracked by the figurative final straw on the camel’s back. “Although I’m not sure Rogers will see the value in getting trashed and smacking me around a few times whenever I so much as _exist_.”

 

“ _Tony_ ,” Maria scolds at the same time Howard slams a hand down on the table, making everyone jump.

 

“I won’t listen to anymore slander out of that mouth!” Howard points angrily at his son, a vein bulging on his temple. “You don’t even know how lucky you are to be playing underneath such a stand-up player, let alone sitting next to him at dinner right now. You could learn a few things from this man, but instead you choose to misbehave, complain, and make your snide little comments under your breath like a _child_. Now you apologize right now for how you’ve acted tonight— Actually, you should apologize for the last _twenty years_ while you’re at it!”

 

Tony’s face shifts from dangerous levels of rage into something much more guarded; It’s honestly a little terrifying to watch the emotion get wiped clean so quickly from his features. “You’re right, _Dad_. I am sorry,” he looks individually around the table, his dark eyes settling on Steve a little too long to feel comfortable before sliding back over to his father. “So, extremely sorry that you couldn’t have Steve _fucking_ Rogers as a son.”

 

Tony angrily shoves his chair back from the table, the sound of the metal on marble unforgiving to the ear. "You should have him show you the fucking _shrine_ he built in your honor," he spits bitterly at Steve before storming out of the dining room.

  
  
Steve glances up at Tony parents, his fork stilling on the plate. Howard continues to eat while Maria sighs and shakes her head. "You'll have to excuse him, Steve."

  
  
"He doesn't have to excuse anything, Maria," Howard sighs, taking another swig of his drink. "Tony throws tantrums like that all the time."

  
  
Maria's expression saddens. "You didn't have to goad him on like that."

 

Howard ignores his wife. "Come on, Steve, let me show you some things around the house. Screw dessert," He sways a bit on his feet as he stands up. Steve glances to Maria who's staring down at her empty plate, brow knit in a way that reminded him of Tony when the kid was frustrated.

 

"Okay," he finally agrees. "Dinner was lovely, Maria."

 

The woman just hums and flashes him an empty smile as she folds her napkin and places it on the table. "I think I'll retire to the library for the night," she says quietly. Howard just grunts and waves for Steve to follow him. As a guest, he’s being split in three separate directions with no idea what’s the proper choice. He’s closest with Tony, who was clearly upset by the conversation but probably doesn’t want to see him. He just met Maria tonight, and while she’s the easiest to get along with in conversation, she’s not exactly happy either right now.

 

In the end he follows after Howard, who’s the most insistent and possibly the easiest of his three options. Steve feels obligated to speak up on Tony and Maria’s behalf. He should say something- anything- to try and diffuse everything that had just been said at dinner. It isn’t his place, though. Howard is an extremely powerful man, and in one meal had become a totally different person from the one Steve had encountered in a bar so many years ago. There is nothing charming or admirable he can find in Stark after he berated his son like that, but Steve fears the consequences that may result in coming to Tony’s defense. There are two sides to every story, and he knows Tony well enough to know that he couldn’t have made it easy on his parents growing up. He wants to believe Tony was just being dramatic and trying to get the last word in as he always did, but if what he said about how his father disciplined him was true…

 

_It’s not your place, it’s not your place. For once, keep your mouth shut. It’s not your place._

 

They walk through the left wing of the house, ascending up the stairs. It almost feels like Steve is walking through a museum, not someone’s home. Other than the front parlor, there are no pictures of Tony anywhere else in the mansion. The walls are mostly adorned with fine art, but Steve even manages to catch the occasional photo of Maria and Howard peppered in.

 

The ice clinks softly in Howard’s glass as they walk, a melodic chime accompanying them as they round another corner. Howard opens a set of sliding wooden doors, gesturing for Steve to enter. “Wow,” he can’t help but breathe out as he walks in, taking in the room.

 

It’s another hosting area of sorts, the room twice the size of the parlor downstairs that had been plenty big in itself. Couches and high-backed chairs of brown leather were placed around the room, a small bar in one corner, two billiards tables, and even a dart board in the room for recreational purposes. The lights are dim, Howard sliding a few switches on the wall by the door to bring them up.

 

There are huge framed posters on the walls of all the greats, each lit up from a backlight, just like posters at the movie theater. Ruth, Robinson, Cobbs, Mays, “Stan the Man” Musial, Bonds… Lesser known names, too: Heilmann, Cochrane, Hubbell, and even—

 

Rogers.

 

Steve naturally gravitates towards his own poster, mouth hanging open slightly. He had expected it to be the photo of himself he was familiar with, the one everyone knew from his limited edition baseball card. The one in his Stars jersey, body twisted in that perfect batting pose, his jaw clenched and gaze determined as he earned a grand slam in his debut game in the Major League in ‘83. However, the picture Howard has hanging on the wall is from his earlier days. He can’t be older than Tony is now in the photo. It’s from the three-year period he had played for the Class A-Advanced league. He was still getting out of his awkward phase after a sudden growth-spurt late into his teen years, his physique still showing the potential for room to bulk up. Steve almost doesn’t recognize himself, the photo looking like a candid from a game long in the past. He was standing on base, arm outstretched as if he had just fired the ball to one of his teammates, a bright smile on his face. Steve did recognize that smile though, knowing he must’ve just witnessed Bucky receiving his throw in the nick of time to get someone out.

 

There are alcoves spaced between the posters along the walls, each one containing various memorabilia on each shelf. Tony had exaggerated with the whole shrine comment, but… Only slightly. The recess holds not only his own merchandise, but relics from the other ball players on the walls as well. It is a bit trippy to see his original rookies jersey hanging up next to a Yankees cap signed by Joe DiMaggio and a bobblehead of Hank Aaron.

 

The room isn’t designed just to be a reliquary for others’ accomplishments. There are display cases around the room as well, Stark-designed bats, gloves, helmets, and other gear that had been birthed from the man standing behind him. It’s a chantry for baseball, a sanctuary so carefully laid out that Steve is at a loss for words.

 

“Impressive, huh?” Howard finally speaks, grinning himself as he looks around the room. He points at a plaque hanging behind them, above the entrance doors. “ _One cannot look to the future without acknowledging the past_ ,” He quotes aloud. “Words spoken by my father. A good mantra for life in general, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Steve nods wordlessly. The room is a clear culmination standing by this belief, a juxtaposition of shiny and new Stark baseball gear and well-worn relics from the best of the best from the history of America’s Favorite Pastime. After another scan of the room, Steve now notices that there is an alcove that is completely bare, free of any knickknacks. It’s in the direct center of the far wall, wider with much more shelf real estate than the others. “Reserving that one for someone special, sir?” Steve asks, nodding towards it.

 

Howard’s eyes are a bit glassed over as he follows Steve’s gaze, his brow furrowing for a moment before it smooths out again. “Ah, right. That one is for Tony. If he can ever earn it,” the man grunted.

 

 _If, not when,_ Steve notices. Maybe Howard just means if Tony ever makes it into the Majors. He’s still young and early in his career, but clearly possesses the skill to be associated on the walls next to the rest of these players. Maybe it’s not so much whether or not Howard considers his son good enough, but _deserving_ enough.

 

“He’s doing really well, so far,” Steve hedges hesitantly, noticing the slight twitch in Howard’s left eye. “I mean, we’re not that far into the friendlies, but it’s already clear he’s really going to help the Avengers for the upcoming season.” _You should be proud_ , he wants to tack on to the end, but something tightens in his throat, forcing him to tug the phrase back.

 

Howard takes a deep breath before replying. “Well, if anyone could shape up that problem child, it’s you,” The man smiles, but it looks forced.

 

A tense and awkward silence hangs in the air. Steve is pretending to busy himself with examining the row of bats lined up on a rack, fingers gliding over the wooden and metal surfaces. “Sir, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but do you happen to know why Tony left the Irons?”

 

Steve has been dying to get a straight answer out of someone about this, and Howard might not know, but as owner of the team and father of their star player, surely he had some kind of insight. Howard’s expression didn’t change from mild sourness. “Why else other than to defy his father?” He rasped, rubbing at the crease between his eyebrows as if he could smooth his irritation away. “I had no damn clue Tony was trying to switch teams. He and Virginia Potts went right under _my_ nose, broke his contract, and made some secret deal with your owner, Fury, the old bastard,” he scoffs, shaking his head.

 

Steve is surprised by this. He had been under the presumption that Howard had to have been aware of Tony’s decision to change teams. “Why the Avengers?” Steve ponders, not sure if he’s just wondering aloud at this point, or he expects the lush to answer him.

 

“Why does Tony do anything he does?” Howard sighs in resignation, staring down at the melting ice in his glass. He walks up next to Steve, placing a hand on his shoulder as he struggles to hold his gaze. Steve worries he might have to hold Howard upright before he goes careening into the billiards table. “Listen to me… Do not let him ruin you, Steve… Or the team. You have to understand that my son… he only does things to further his own agenda. I’m afraid he takes after me far too much in that regard,” he lets out a ridiculous laugh, the sound so grating and sudden it makes Steve flinch. Howard’s face grows shockingly serious then, his clouded over gaze appearing to clear somewhat. “He’s spiteful, Steve. He doesn’t care about the sport, or respect. Everything he does is in calculation. That worked for us— worked for the Irons. You need to keep him in check if you don’t want your Avengers to fall apart.”

 

“With all do respect, sir,” Steve very carefully takes Howard’s hand and peels it off his shoulder. “Tony is a part of my team now. I’ll treat him whichever way I see fit, seeing as it’s my job.” He’s surprised he’s able to keep so cool in basically telling a man’s own father that he holds no claim to a son he neglected to raise.

 

The interruption in the form of a quiet knock comes from the doorway, breaking the hostile air. Steve assumes the man standing with a cell phone is one of the butlers of the mansion, because hired caterers were obviously just the tip of the iceberg. "Sir, It's Beijing calling back."

 

"Ah, yes," Howard clicks the heels of his feet together, wiping a hand down his face. "I should take that. Steve," he claps the man on the back a little harder than necessary. Steve is starting to catch on that that's just how Howard does everything. "It's getting late so feel free to take your pick of the spare bedrooms, or you can head downstairs and we'll have a driver take you back to the hotel."

 

"Thank you, sir. I think I'll just see what Tony wants to do," Steve says politely, not missing the way Howard's expression darkens at the mention of his own son's name.

 

"Right then," Howard clears his throat and accepts the phone from the butler.

 

"Um, sorry," Steve grabs the attention of the butler. "Could you tell me where Mrs. Stark is?"

 

The man smiles thinly. "You might check the library on the third floor. I can escort you there if you'd like."

 

Having to be escorted through a mansion by a butler was almost too much for Steve to handle tonight. "That's alright," he admonished awkwardly. "I'll find my way, thanks."

 

Steve meanders around the house, peeking into open doorways as he makes his way back to the stairs. Howard’s warnings about Tony swim around in his head, Steve forcing them away as nothing more than ramblings of a drunk. He ascends up to the third floor of the house which has two large oak doors towards the center of the estate, overlooking the main foyer. Steve pushes them open, his jaw dropping at the size of this library.

 

The room is dimly lit with two levels to the vast room, huge bookshelves lining the walls. Steve has never seen anything quite like it, plenty of tables and large, comfortable looking armchairs to sit in. Steve notices Maria curled in one of the bay windows towards the back of the room, now wearing a silk nightgown with what looks like a photo album in her lap. She's staring out the window and hasn't noticed Steve has walked in.

 

He clears his throat as he approaches. "Ma'am?"

 

She finally turns to look at him, a sad smile on her face. Her nose is red and she’s clearly been crying, but her voice doesn’t show. "Ah, Steve. How was the tour?"

 

"It was alright," Steve answers, sitting down in the alcove with her. The bay window ran halfway up to the ceiling, providing a view of the stars appearing in the darkening sky. "Wow, I can't remember the last time I could see the stars this well."

 

Maria's smile softens a fraction. "Yes, it's nice being so far out from the city."

 

They sit in silence for a while. Steve isn't sure what to say to a woman he hardly knows who's clearly been crying.

 

"Those Stark men aren't easy," Maria finally speaks, fingers worrying at the hem of her gown. “But I suppose that’s half their charm, isn’t it?”

 

“You would know better than I would,” Steve answers honestly.

 

There’s a few moments of silence between them, both of them staring out at the moonlit waters below, the tide lapping lazily against the shore, foam sliding up to hug the black rocks before retreating back into the ocean.

 

“You must think I’m such a terrible mother,” Maria says eventually, a laugh that turns into a sigh halfway through escaping from her.

 

“You’re not,” Steve answers immediately.

 

She turns her eyes on him. “Or that Howard is a terrible father?”

 

The question feels like a trap somehow, and it’s one Steve is entirely unsure on how to navigate. “I think it’s exactly how you said. Stark men aren’t easy,” he gives a hesitant smile. “I think you’re doing the best you can.” Steve never got the chance to get to an age where he really butt heads with his father, but even after Joseph’s death, he still loved his mother more than anything. Howard didn’t need to be six feet under for Steve to see that the case was the same with Tony.

 

Steve reaches out and sets his hand on Maria’s knee. “Tony clearly cares about you a lot. I think he cares about you more than I’ve seen him care for anyone else. You’re a great mother, Maria.”

 

Maria’s smile reminds his of Tony’s— the real one, not the fake smirk he puts on for the cameras. “Thank you, Steve. That’s all I can hope for. I care about him more than anything I’ve created. I always thought I was doing it for me, or for Howard, but as soon as he was born…” she sighs wetly. “My little Anthony. It’s always all been for him.” She looks down at the book in her lap. Steve can see a picture of Tony, he’s upside down and can't be more than twelve, standing next to a large MIT sign, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Looks like move-in day, and judging by Tony's wide smile, Maria must've been behind the camera.

 

She places her hand on top of Steve’s, her dark eyes watering as she turns them on him. Her gaze is so intense it makes him want to glance away, but he maintains eye contact. “Please take care of him, Steve.”

 

Steve chuckles weakly. “I’m not sure I’m the man for that mission. Your son doesn’t like me very much.”

 

“My son is an expert at not letting people know how he actually feels.”

 

“Do you know where he is?”

 

Maria points out the window, down towards the building Steve had seen before from the dining room. He just now notices that the lights are on. “Whenever he’s upset, Tony goes to his lab to do work.” She presses her lips together. “I’m glad he has that safe space at the very least when he wants to get away from everything.”

 

Steve nods, pressing his lips together. “Thank you, Maria. I promise I’ll do my best. Tony’s a good kid, I at least know that much.”

 

She keeps staring out the window, but Steve can see her smiling. “You know enough, then.”

 

Steve hears the blaring music before he even reaches the garage. He walks into the back entrance, not seeing Tony at first through all the mess. Despite the fact that it's a garage, there's not many cars in the large, open space. There's a fridge in one corner and a huge desk spanning across one wall. The storage cabinets in the room are all open and look like a tornado has blown through, blueprints and tools strewn everywhere. The floor is a minefield of scrap metal, Steve taking care not to trip on anything as he makes his way further into the garage.

 

"Tony?" he calls loudly, unsure if he'll even be heard over the screeching guitar solo. Something goes flying by his head, Steve barely having time to duck out of the way. It crashes against the wall and hits the floor, sparks going everywhere.

 

"Shit!" he hears Tony exclaim, the kid popping up from behind a rolling cart. His eyes, thankfully protected by safety goggles, immediately narrow when he sees Steve. He grabs a tiny remote and hits a button, the music shutting off. "What are you doing here? Howard's creepy baseball chapel scare you off?" Tony's hands are littered with new little scars and burn marks as he wipes them off on his jeans and maneuvers his way easily through the garage.

 

Tony bumps into him as he shoulders past to pick up his... whatever it was. Some kind of contraption with propellers on it. Tony's muttering to himself under his breath, walking over to plop it down on a table. He scoops some kind of handheld remote control off the ground as well, placing it next to his flying doohickey. They're almost the same size, the remote having about five different joysticks and twenty different buttons in it in addition to a huge antenna sticking out of it.

 

"...What is that?" Steve asks curiously, crossing over to the opposite side of Tony's workbench.

 

Tony doesn't glance up as he sits down and starts to take the device apart. It's about the size of a dinner plate with four propellers on it, and that's about all Steve can deduce. "Drone."

 

"A what?"

 

Tony spares him an annoyed look as he pries off a back panel on the "drone" and slides out a small cube with a lens on it. "It's a remote piloted surveillance device— well, it is now. I didn't think about using it for surveillance purposes until more recently. Opens up an entirely new market— most likely some bastards from the government but if I haven't sold my soul already..."

 

"Wait, that's a camera?" It was so... small. How was that even possible? Where did the polaroid slide out?

 

"Yeah," Tony holds it at eye level, turning it back and forth before setting it back down. "You don't have to pretend to be interested. I know your brain probably runs on possible plays and defensive line-ups."

 

"I'm very interested," Steve replies honestly, trying not to be offended by Tony's latter jibe. The engineer throws a skeptical look his way. "No, really. I'm all talked out on baseball for the night." This seems to melt Tony by a fraction, Steve earning a subtle nod.

 

He starts taking the thing apart piece by piece now, ripping each plastic propeller blade out and tossing them into a nearby garbage can. The genius picks up right where he left off, "Problem is, with the added weight I've got to recalibrate the entire frame. Honestly, I might just toss it and start from scratch," He keeps gutting the thing and Steve doesn't know the difference in value between what Tony keeps on the table and what he throws away. "The material has to be dense enough to withstand the force it takes to lift the device including the receiver and the camera, but light enough to where flight is even possible. I had a polyurethane carbon before, but I'm probably going to have to ramp it up and use an aluminum alloy composite for the propellers... the frame might actually be okay the way it is." He taps on the hard plastic of the drone.

 

Steve isn't quite sure Tony's even talking to him at this point as he rolls his chair over to a stack of papers, sifting through until he finds what he's looking for. He returns to the drone and pulls a pencil from behind his ear as he starts writing down formulas that Steve can't even begin to comprehend. "Then there's the matter of noise... I might be able to quiet the engine since the entire point would be inconspicuous... the size is already a big 'X' in that zone, but hopefully at night it can get away with being less than obvious until I can design some kind of cloaking mechanism."

 

Tony finally glances up at Steve, his lips pursing for a second. He pushes his goggles up on the top of his head, and Steve almost prefers this. It feels a little less formal now that he can look Tony in the eye without a scratched up plastic shield in the way. "I know this stuff doesn't matter to you and, frankly, is mostly going over your head. I tend to get a little talky when there's people around my stuff, which is rare. I don't really get the chance to talk about this with anyone since graduating, and no one wants to hear me talk about anything that isn't baseball these days."

 

It _is_ nice that Tony feels like he can actually talk to Steve as opposed to just scream profanities at him, but Steve still has no idea what he’s prattling on about.

 

Tony kicks away from the desk, his chair rolling across the lab. Steve realizes that a tornado really did hit this place, and its name is Tony Stark. The kid starts loading stuff up in his lap, ricocheting around the lab on his rolling chair. He picks up a blueprint, a huge roll of some kind of thick material, a half-eaten sandwich, and a ruler before landing at some kind of cutting station.

 

Steve's in awe as Tony uses a long blade along the edge of the table to cut a huge square of his material out, then climbs up on top of the table to lay out the blueprint on some kind of lightboard that hung over the table. He hit a switch and a projection of his blueprint appeared on the material below it. Tony jumps back down onto the ground, taking a bite of his sandwich. "Ay'shur crmnr," he explains around a mouthful of ham and cheese as he pulls out his ruler to make sure his measurements are correct.

 

"What?" Steve laughs, walking over to peek at the huge control panel on the station.

 

Tony swallows. "Laser cutter."

 

"Aren't you drunk still?"

 

"Yeah?" Tony looks up at him with a blank expression. "Aaaaand?"

 

"Should you be operating, um, heavy machinery?"

 

Tony sneers and tosses Steve a pair of goggles. "I do my best work drunk. Wear those if it makes you feel any safer." He flips a switch on the machine and reaches for some kind of arm that's suspended over the table. The machine hums loudly until a beam of bright blue light jets out in a perfect line. Tony starts guiding the laser along the pattern, his face set in deep concentration.

 

Steve doesn't speak again until Tony shuts off the machine and peels out all his newly made propellers, shoving the scrap material into a heap on the ground. Tony opens a few cabinets before he finds a large vat of clear liquid. He sets it down on a large Bunsen burner and turns it on, plopping down all his propellers. "A polycaprolactone solvent. It'll help seal and expand the composite."

 

Steve stares at Tony for a while and gives the lab a second look around. It was like a different planet in here. "I... I _thought_ I knew what an engineer was before I walked in here, but now I'm not so sure."

 

That actually gets a laugh from the young millionaire. "Regular engineer shit gets boring. Gotta branch out every now and again." He finishes off his sandwich and leans back in his chair, shuffling his feet against the ground.

 

The two are quiet for a while, the only sound the hum of flame from the burner, and a quiet bubbling from the unpronounceable liquid as it boils. Steve had expected more heat from Tony when he came down here, but the sequence of events that followed Tony's initial hostility was so unexpected that now the two of them have no idea where to go from here.

 

"Your mom seemed worried about you," Steve blurts out, immediately wincing when Tony's mouth twitches into a frown. Bad start. Maybe he can still bounce back.

 

Tony releases the longest sigh Steve's ever heard from the kid. He's surprised there's any air left in Tony's lungs after a heave like that. "She always worries," he mutters, picking up a rubber ball off the counter. He starts bouncing it against the wall, catching it every time it comes back to him. "I would say I'd apologize to her about ruining dinner later, but it wasn't the first time I've done it nor will it be the last."

 

Steve presses his lips together. What he wouldn't give to ruin a dinner with his mom at least one more time. Mentioning this aloud isn’t going to help Tony not hate him any less. "She'd probably still appreciate the apology," he says quietly.

 

Tony just hums.  _Thud, ping, thud, ping_ , goes the bouncy ball as Tony continues methodically bouncing it off the counter and wall. "I'm surprised you didn't come here asking for an apology— or at least expecting one."

 

Steve snorts. "Expect an apology from Tony Stark? I may not be some kind of chemical engineer drone-creating super genius, but I'm not _that_ dumb." Steve catches Tony bite back a smile and decides to venture closer into the ballsy/pushing-it territory of banter. "Doesn't change the fact that you were kind of being a drunk brat."

 

"It's kinda my thing," he croaks wryly.

 

Steve shrugs. "I guess I can understand where you were coming from." Tony's points at dinner, as harsh and vulgar as they were, weren't completely unwarranted. Taking it out on Steve wasn't exactly fair either.

 

"No you can't," Tony sneers. "You're _perfect_ , remember? Wholesome little cake topper who's the ideal poster child of America's favorite pastime. Who wouldn’t be soooo enamored by Steve Rogers? Howard’s obsession of you was as bad as the boys’ at prep school with Farrah Fawcett.”

 

Steve decided to ignore all the sarcasm so he could dig a little deeper to try and get some sort of break through with his player. “You went to prep school? And here I thought you got enrolled in MIT the second you came out of the womb.”

 

That actually got a laugh out of Tony as he continued to bounce the ball. “Didn’t get to MIT until I was eleven, unfortunately. My parents decided that their busy schedules would get a little less so if they got me out of the picture. Shipped me off before I even lost all my baby teeth. Got kicked out of about four different institutions until my dad let me go to a place I could actually be challenged,” he scoffed. “I think he was hoping I would turn into an All-American Baseball-Lovin’ Wholesome Young Man like the rest of those prep school morons.” Tony swiveled his chair around to look at Steve. “More like you.”

 

Ah, so they were back on that. Good to know Tony could even _argue_ in circles. “Parents always have an idea of what they want their kid to grow up to be. Maybe Howard wanted you to be more like him.” _And I had nothing to do with it_ , Steve added mentally.

 

Tony glares for a moment, but Steve can see a hint of contemplation in the squint of his eyes before the kid turns away, retreating once again. “Yeah, well… Some of us refuse to follow the path other people pave for us.”

 

Steve isn’t sure what to say to that. He isn’t exactly a fan of getting mixed up in the Stark family drama, but it seems like all three of them don’t know how to communicate with one another. Tony sighs loudly, slapping his hands down on the arms of the chair. The ball bounces and rolls off into a far corner as he gets to his feet. "Well, I'm not driving back to the hotel tonight, but I'm sure you can grab Gustav and have him drive you back. Or you can stay here, I don't really give a shit."

 

Steve stands as well, glad this conversation seems to be over. "I don't mind staying. We can just go back together in the morning."

 

"Morning," Tony huffs under his breath as he heads for the door. Steve hears an intense sounding electronic lock slide into place behind them, following Tony up the dark path back to the house. There's a few steep inclines that Tony almost face plants on, but he shoves Steve's arm away every time it's offered.

 

They both make it back to the mansion in one piece, and the house is silent. "There's a billion guest rooms for you to choose from," he offers, waving a hand around as he shuffles over to the stairs.

 

"Well... where's your room at?" Steve asks.

 

Tony glances back at him, a slow grin spreading. "Yeah, sailor?" He waggles his eyebrows.

 

Steve blushes, shaking his head. "I didn't— I just meant so I don't have to come searching for you in the endless marble maze."

 

Tony laughs, clutching the stairwell railing as he swings himself around it. "Yeah, just follow me."

 

Steve does just that, almost bumping into Tony when he stops right in front of a set of double doors.

 

"This is mine, but there's a guest room right down the hall," he jerks his thumb over to another door. When he opens his own bedroom door, Steve just barely gets a glimpse of a white room decorated with accents of burgundy and gold.

 

"Okay, thanks. I'll see you in the morning, Tony."

 

"Night, Rogers," Tony gives a lazy wave, slipping into his room.

 

Steve hesitates outside the guest room, hearing a few dull thumps coming from Tony's room next door. He's just about to head in when he sees the door fly open, Tony stepping back out. He's got his shirt off now, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He blinks a couple of times when he sees Steve in the hallway.

 

"Hey," he says, after they have been staring at each other for at least twenty seconds _. Just apologize,_ Tony thinks. _You were a complete ass at dinner. It's the least you could do._

 

Steve keeps staring at Tony, raising his eyebrows. "...Yeah?"

 

Tony's gaze flickers and he clears his throat as he pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth. "Um, the left window in that room... It sticks." He shoves the toothbrush back into his mouth. "Thought you should know."

 

Tony slams the door shut, leaving Steve alone in the hallway. The blonde chuckles and retires to his own ridiculously comfortable bed. The night had taken one too many turns than he was equipped to deal with, but Steve didn't have any hope that anything will have changed between them. Once the sun comes up tomorrow, Tony will go back to normal— berating and disrespecting Steve at every opportunity.

 

They wake up before the rest of the house the following day, Steve following the sound of a serene piano song filtering from downstairs. He expects to find Maria or possibly Howard sitting in the lounge, listening to some track on the radio, but is shocked when he rounds a corner to see Tony sitting at the grand piano. He’s faced away from the entrance Steve came through, his posture disciplined as he plays. It’s a slow and melancholy tune, the tempo taking liberations as Tony’s unpracticed fingers make the occasional misstep. It still sounds beautiful, even in its simplicity, and Steve feels wrong intruding on this moment. He quietly leaves the lounge, backing up until he’s standing at the bottom of the main stairs. When the song tapers off into Tony just fiddling around on the keys, playing a hint of the melody from before, Steve calls out. “Tony?”

 

He doesn’t hear anything for a few moments before Tony walks into the foyer, carrying a book in his hands. “Morning,” he says noncommittally, not looking up from the worn paperback in his hands.

 

“I’m surprised to see you up. You’re late and hungover to almost every morning practice we have,” Steve comments. “What were you up to?”

 

“Mm. Reading.”

 

“Just reading?”

 

“Yep,” Tony doggy-ears the page before setting the book aside on and end table. “Are you ready to head back?”

 

“Sure. Do you know if your parents are around? I’d like to say goodbye and thank them again for dinner.”

 

Tony scoffs, smiling at Steve like he had said something particularly adorable and naive. “Mom left for Sunday breakfast with her girlfriends, and Howard is in bed nursing a hangover. Starks are bigger on the _Irish goodbye_.”

 

“I’m Irish, and I’m pretty sure that’s not _actually_ a thing,” Steve sighs and follows him out the door. No matter what Tony thinks his parents prefer, God forbid he try to show common courtesy.

 

They’ve got two more games in the following week in the Southern California area, then take a bus to Arizona for a game, and lastly fly to Texas for one more exhibition match before returning home for real league play to begin come April. After an entire pre-season of not getting any in-game action, Natasha finally allows Steve to grace the starting line-up again for their last few games. He naturally falls back into the rhythm of playing, still starting off easy, only playing a few innings here and there.

 

Steve doesn’t expect his and Tony’s relationship to change any, even after that disastrous family dinner, but just as he had on that night, Tony surprises him.

 

Where Steve had expected Tony to only draw back further, to become more hostile after letting Steve see him so vulnerable, he actually seems to open up, as minuscule as the change is. There’s no way he can know exactly what Steve and Howard had discussed about him, but maybe he can tell that whatever they had talked about made Steve ease up a little as well.

 

Tony’s less abrasive when he asks him a direct question or gives him a suggestion during warm-ups or between innings. It’s not until Dallas that they actually play a game together for the first time.

 

It hardly counts considering they’re both in the outfield, right and left wing. Steve knows Natasha’s trying to move Tony around and feel out how he does in every position, but it’s clear the outfield is not a good fit for him. As proficient of a player as he is, Tony shines more with accuracy and prioritization in strategy. Being a fielder is a more static position, meant to be support. It’s not much of a surprise that Tony gets subbed out pretty early on, not having the arm strength to be able to get the ball all the way into the infield without needing to use their center as a middle man. There’s only a single inning of crossover between them with basically no interaction considering there’s rarely a reason for passes to be made between their positions.

 

He wonders if Natasha is doing it on purpose, but he decides not to ask, leaving that bear unpoked.

 

They end up losing the game against Dallas, but it’s only their second loss during all of Spring Training. The team all crowds around Victor’s portable radio at the airport later that night to hear how the standings are and where the predictions for the coming seasons lie. There are still a handful of exhibition games to be had for other teams, but the Avengers have already proved that this season they aren’t a team to be trifled with.

 

The most buzz around the team is centered around Tony Stark and his impressive skills shown during this pre-season, everyone anxious to see when he would grace the pitcher’s mound with his presence. Natasha and Janet sit off to the side, both of them doing uncanny impressions of a pair of cats who just chowed down on a couple of canaries. Steve glances around at the group as they all listen in, wondering if anyone is going to show any kind of resentment towards the outsider of the team for garnering all of the attention. Strange is the only one who looks outwardly peeved, but Steve also thinks that’s just his face.

 

Much like his own personal relationship with Tony, the prodigy’s connection with the rest of their teammates has apparently developed right under all their noses, unobtrusive in its gradual progression. Their fellow players are aiming excited grins at one of their youngest rising stars, clapping him on the back and ruffling up his hair. Tony is pretty good-natured about it, Steve only catching a flash of real irritation in his brown eyes once Clint shakes him by the shoulders for a few seconds too long.

 

Their revelry is eventually broken up by some of the airport staff who ask them to quiet down. This breaks the team up into smaller groups, Steve deciding to settle himself besides Natasha and Janet to discuss plans for the upcoming season. He can’t help but let his gaze drift off to where Tony is sitting, discussing something quietly with Banner. Bruce isn’t particularly close to anyone on the team, and seems like an unlikely choice for someone who would actually enjoy one-on-one time with a caustic extrovert like Tony. They seem to be getting along though, and even if Steve can’t hear their conversation, it’s nice to see Tony look so at-ease.

 

It’s a long flight back to New York, the wheels finally touching down at LaGuardia around one a.m. There’s a shuttle to get the players who live in Manhattan closer to the city, but some of them find their own means of transportation home, a lot of them not living in the city. Steve shoulders his duffel bag and sees Tony waving goodbye as Rhodes hops in a cab. He’s pretty sure he lives right here in Queens, so he doesn’t have a long way to go at all.

 

Steve follows about half the team onto the bus, scanning over the seats. Tony is sitting towards the back in a row by himself, sweatshirt hood pulled up over his head resting against the window. There isn’t much conversation going on in the bus, most of the players continuing the nap they had taken on the plane back to the East Coast. Steve makes his way down the aisle, tossing his bag in the empty row parallel to Tony before he plops down in the seat next to him.

 

Tony lifts his head minutely, cracking an eye open at Steve with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry, was this seat taken?” Steve asks dryly.

 

One corner of Tony’s mouth twitches and the younger of the two elbows him with no real force. He closes his eyes again, crossing his arms a little tighter over his chest as he settles back into the seat. He’s curled up in it, knees against his chest, and Steve is almost a little jealous of his small frame and how easy it looks for him to get comfortable. He never slept well while traveling, to large to fold himself up in the way Tony was able to. There’s clearly no conversation to be had tonight, so Steve closes his eyes and attempts to let his thoughts drift for the next forty-five minutes in an attempt to get at least an inch of rest.

 

Just as he’s starting to fall off the precipice, he feels a weight settle against his shoulder. Steve blinks his eyes open, peering down at the top of Tony’s head. His hood had slipped down, soft brown locks sticking up and tickling the edge of Steve’s jaw when he tries to get a good look at him. Steve watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, his once crossed arms now pooled lazily in his lap. There’s no need to push Tony’s head off him and disrupt his sleep, so Steve lets his eyes droop shut once more, the scent of Tony’s shampoo filling his nostrils as he finally falls asleep.

 

“Rogers, we’re here. Get up. Steve.”

 

Steve comes back to consciousness with a slight jolt, feeling a hand remove itself from his shoulder as he finally gets up. He wipes a hand down his face, straightening up from where he had slumped down in the seat. Tony is standing in the aisle next to him with his backpack hanging off one shoulder. He’s got Steve’s duffel in one hand, tossing it unceremoniously onto his lap. “Come on, slow poke, this is the end of the line.”

 

“What?” Steve blurts on instinct, hearing the familiar phrase out of an unfamiliar mouth. He’s still a little disoriented, not used to actually getting any sleep during travel.

 

Tony raises his eyebrows, looking a little annoyed. “We’re the last ones off. Let’s go.”

 

Steve quickly gets to his feet, realizing they are indeed the last two left on the bus, probably for some time now. He apologizes to the driver on their way off, just earning a slow nod and a “have a good evening”.

 

A few of the players are still grabbing taxis, Steve squinting up at a street sign to try and figure out which stop they had gotten dropped off at. They weren’t far from his apartment, and despite the late hour, all the honking horns and shouting on the street were beginning to wake him back up. He looks over to see if any of the other guys want to pool in on one car, trying to remember which of his teammates live the closest to him. As he ponders this, he notices Tony’s retreating form walking down the street. Steve isn’t sure what compels him to follow, but before he knows it, he’s catching up to the pitcher at a quick jog.

 

“Tony,” he calls out, slowing when he finally can match pace with the kid. “Were you looking to catch a cab down the block?”

 

“Hm? No, I’m walking home. My building isn’t that far from here,” He keeps trucking ahead, not slowing down for Steve’s sake.

 

“You’re going to walk there alone? At this hour?”

 

Tony smirks over at him, his hood pulled back up onto his head. “Aw, you worried about me, Rogers? I can take care of myself, y’know.”

 

“I just don’t think anyone should walk around alone, no matter how far,” Steve answers earnestly. “I was actually thinking about walking myself since I’m not too far from here. Whereabouts are you?”

 

“West 68th and Columbus.”

 

“Huh.”

 

Tony peers at him sideways with narrowed eyes. “Huh, _what_?”

 

Steve tries to hide his smile. “Nothing, I just pegged you more as an Upper East Sider. Figured you’d have a swanky place right on 5th Avenue.”

 

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be Brooklyn born-and-raised,” Tony bumps Steve with his shoulder, slowing his unusually quick pace enough to fall in step with the taller man.

 

It’s a nice night, the sidewalks a little wet from some rainfall earlier in the evening. All the lights shine brightly in the reflective puddles on the ground. They cut through one corner of Central Park, a comfortable silence settling between them. They technically pass Steve’s building on the way, but he decides not to say anything since he doesn’t have to double-back too far. Steve is slightly confused when Tony comes to a stop in front of an enormous hotel, the revolving door spinning aimlessly with no one wandering in or out at this hour.

 

“Is this where you’re staying while you look for a place?” Steve asks in confusion, craning his neck back as far as it will go to try and spot the top of the massive building. He supposes Tony’s decision to come to New York may have been last minute, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford the competitive real estate market in Manhattan.

 

“A family friend owns this hotel chain. I paid him upfront for the next year to let me rent out the penthouse at a discounted rate,” Tony shrugs.

 

Steve’s brow furrows, not sure if Tony is joking. “Wait, you’re just living here? You’re _living_ in a hotel?”

 

Tony mockingly mirrors his incredulous look. “Why would I bother trying to find a more permanent residence? We travel a lot anyway, and who knows if I’ll even be here next season. Plus, I get all the perks of room service and don’t have to deal with annoying neighbors.”

 

Steve can see where he’s coming from. It’s not exactly like he loves the fact that the lady who lives above him tap dances as a hobby, or that the couple of guys across the hall are amateur DJs who throw parties every weekend, but that’s half the fun of living in a place like Manhattan. Everything had character. Steve can’t imagine going home to the same generic space that he isn’t able to make his own every day. “Maybe you just feel that way because as long as you don’t let yourself get comfortable here, you’ll have less reason to stay.”

 

He’s really just thinking aloud, not expecting to strike any sort of chord with Tony. When he looks back down at the younger man, he’s surprised to see a strangely contemplative look on his face. When Tony realizes where he is, who he’s with, he quickly replaces the look of thought with one of disdain. “I’ve been here two months. You think I care that much about this team?”

 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know what you care about, but I do know you came to the Avengers for a reason. Maybe I don’t know what that is yet— Hell, maybe _you_ don’t even know— but you’re here now. And I don’t think you plan on going anywhere next season,” he smiles with feigned smugness. “In fact, I’ll bet right now that you’re still here after December signings. And if you are, you have to get an apartment. A _real_ one.”

 

“I’m not betting anything with you, Rogers,” Tony drones before stepping towards the revolving door. He stops right in front of it, throwing a look over his shoulder. “But if you end up being right, then you have to help me hunt for an apartment.”

 

Steve chuckles. “Deal. But just so you know, they don’t usually come with the maids and butlers.”

 

Tony flips him the bird as he steps into the spinning doors and disappears into the hotel lobby. Steve is still smiling to himself about finally getting the last word in as he walks the last couple of blocks home.

 

Even if he knows this is the best team someone could hope to be apart of, he doubts Tony will ever feel so strongly about them the way he does. Once Tony gets what he wants out of this— more fame, controversy, notoriety, whatever it is he’s looking for, Steve has no doubts in his mind that he’ll ditch them as soon as the opportunity arises.

 

The abrupt pang of sadness at the thought confuses Steve more than anything he had felt since the day Tony showed up in his stadium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was a bit of a longer wait on this chapter! I hope all the juicy Stony interactions that finally come around made it worth the wait.


	4. Checked Swing

July, 1991

 

The buzzing from the speaker by his door grows incessant as Tony rushes around his apartment. He stubs his toe on a stray wrench that had somehow become sentient and found its way in the middle of his living room, sending it skittering across the hardwood floor.

 

“Hold your horses, Jesus,” Tony mutters to no one in particular, now hopping on one foot as he makes the one last trip to his bedroom to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.

 

It’s been about five months since Tony moved in, and the place still doesn’t feel fully lived in. Tony is accustomed to travel, jumping from place to place. He had been born in New York City, raised in Malibu, was sent to boarding schools in London, Paris, and Barcelona, made a home for himself during University in Cambridge, and frequented their villa in Florence during his time off. He learned to call all these places home, it never being a singular concept to him.

 

There are still boxes pushed into corners and spare closets, framed but unhung graphic design art pieces leaning against the walls and stacked on top of each other. The bookshelves around the place are full but unorganized, and the furnishings only look passable because of the interior designers he had hired to fix up the place. It still doesn’t really feel like _his own_ just yet, most of his personality tucked away in a studio space towards the back of the apartment that he’s renovated into more of a workshop. It pales in comparison to his labs at his and his parents’ houses back in California, but the scant space works well enough as a foundry for the ideas that just won’t leave him alone.

 on

As Tony surveys around the open space one more time, counts his bags, double-checks that all his necessary grooming materials are packed in his toiletry bag, he realizes he hasn’t heard the buzzing in a while. It’s soon replaced by insistent pounding on his door, the sudden sound making him jump. “I know, I know, I’m almost ready!” He calls as he jogs over the door, quickly opening it. “Oh good, it’s just you. Help me grab these bags so we can make it down in one trip.”

 

His Captain sighs in annoyance and follows him into the large penthouse. Steve really had campaigned to try and get Tony to pick something less ostentatious when they had started looking around last December after it was clear Tony signed on for another season. He’s only step foot in here once or twice in the past few months, and he’s still under the opinion that it’s simply too large for _one_ person. “We’ve been in the car for twenty minutes, we’re going to miss our flight if you keep dilly-dallying.”

 

“Oh please, like I don’t know you and Janet give me ETAs an hour earlier than the actual time to make sure we’re not late to stuff. Now put those big muscles to use and help me carry down my bags,” Tony grabs his carry-on backpack and one of his rolling suitcases.

 

“Why are you bringing so much?” Steve questions in disbelief. Despite the judgement and annoyance written across his face, he still walks over to where Tony’s extra suitcase is sitting with three garment bags stacked on top of it. “We won’t even be gone for that long.”

 

“Yeah, but we have four nights in _Vegas_ , and I’m going to make the most of being back in my old stomping grounds. I would tell you about all the incredible weekends I’ve had there if I was ever sober enough to remember them.”

 

“Says the kid who just turned twenty-one two months ago,” Steve sighs in what sounds like disappointment. At this point, he knows any kind of reprimands about Tony’s underaged behavior will fall on deaf ears. That ship sailed long, long ago. “We’re not going there to party,” he reminds Tony as they haul his luggage into the elevator. “It’s the All-Star game.”

 

Tony whirls around after pressing the button for the lobby, his hand flying to cover his gaping mouth. “Wh-What? That’s what we’re doing? I-I had no idea!” He exclaims, dramatically gripping the railing inside the elevator as if he’ll collapse if he doesn’t hang tight. Steve swings one of his garment bags at him, smacking him in the face with it.

 

They’re still bumping into each other and attempting to trip one another with the rolling luggage by the time they make it out of Tony’s building and onto the street. Janet’s already waiting by the van, making a show of tapping her watch as the two laughing players make their way over. She makes no comment about the quantity of things Tony is bringing, just shakes her head and gestures for him to get into the van when they finish loading everything up.

 

“Tony!” Thor greets in a booming voice. There’s two rows of seats in the rear section of the car, Tony crouching as he climbs into the back.

 

“Woof, let’s turn down the volume until I’ve had my morning coffee, Point Break,” Tony pats the man on one huge bicep, sinking down into the seat next to his teammate. Steve takes his seat in front of them, Janet hopping back into shotgun. As soon as they’re settled, the car is pulling onto the street, weaving between the hectic traffic to get them to the airport as quickly as possible.

 

Tony likes Thor more than he thinks he would have upon first glance. He still doesn’t know the guy’s real name— some impossible-to-pronounce Norwegian moniker. He’d been fondly nicknamed after the Norse God of Thunder because of the unmistakable power he had to his swing, mimicking a clap of thunder that rocks the stadium every time he hits the ball.

 

He’s definitely one of the more boisterous of the Avengers, but even then it’s hard to be particularly annoyed by a man who’s just genuinely _happy_ to be where he is at all times. He comes from a similar background as Tony: old money, kind of a shitty father, came to the Triple-A’s to sort of prove himself worthy of a spot in the Majors. He had apparently gotten offers from Major League Teams straight out of college, but he had turned them down to play for the Avengers instead. He’s one of the older vets to the team, having played for them even longer than Steve. If he remembers correctly from what Natasha has told him, Thor has been around as long as she’s been coach.

 

Tony’s leg jumps up and down with anticipation. After the disgrace of Fury and Natasha collectively banning him from being eligible for last year’s All-Star game, Janet had convinced them to come around this year and at least see if he could win the media/fan choice if given the option.

 

Evidently, he’s been doing something right. He and Thor are the popular picks from the Avengers this year, with Steve being tacked on by the IL Board’s vote. The year when Tony had still been playing for the PCL, Steve was the only player chosen to represent the Avengers. Last year, no one had been called up. Tony thinks that Steve probably would’ve had another shot at it had he actually played more, but the previous season was more of a resting period for the thirty-four year-old Captain. The Avengers have always been a well-regarded team, but haven’t always resonated with the fanbase. Half of the interest with the Triple-As were how often rosters fluctuated, constantly rotating players in and out, new faces every season. The Avengers had sort of fallen at a stalemate in the last couple of seasons, but they’ve started a slow crescendo again thanks to Steve at the helm and having a handful of newbies from the Double-As on their team this season. (Tony also likes to think he’s piqued people’s interest since joining.)

 

The tables have flipped on him since the All-Star game he played two years ago. He’s now playing _with_ Steve rather than _against_ on the International League’s side, the game being hosted at a familiar PCL stadium he’d played a number of games at back when he was on the Irons. He doesn’t have as much pull with the unfamiliar coach this year, a man named Rezzo who’s the youngest coach in the league, belonging to Boston. Tony’s going to be playing as a relief pitcher this time, no room for negotiation.

 

Tony zones out as Thor prattles on about his newest obsession with astronomy or astrology— he’s not quite sure which one— staring at the back of Steve’s blonde head. Playing with Rogers and the rest of the Avengers for the past year and a half had started to change him in a way he hasn’t expected. He held years of resentment for the fallen golden boy from the Brooklyn Stars and a couple of seasons of playing under him wasn’t going to cure that. But Tony has learned to _tolerate_ him. He’s not all bad, if you like wholesome do-gooders who are constantly making their moral agendas known. Tony just has to sit back and remind himself that he didn’t come to the Avengers to make himself happy. He’s proving a point, and so far it’s working splendidly.

 

His first season playing for the Avengers hadn’t been one for the books. They finished around the top-middle of the league, not even getting close to getting to the post-season championship game that would’ve pitted them against the Irons, who have been at the top of the PCL for the past seven years. Aside from that, plenty of buzz had been generated around the Manhattan-based team for the first time in a while. This season is going much better for them so far, Tony updating the Pythagorean expectation in his head after every game to know exactly where everyone in their league stood, and in turn, be able to predict who would be in the running to face off against the Irons this season.

 

He and Steve still butt heads constantly, but they’ve both began to admit to each other that maybe the other’s methods of how to play baseball aren’t entirely unfounded. Tony follows the advice of his Captain, and Steve lets Tony have input when it comes to strategic accuracy in the game. His scientific methods never fail him, and now it’s just a matter of getting the rest of the team to look at it the way he does so he can underlyingly continue to mold them into a team that can beat his old club.

 

Even if Tony doesn’t walk away from his time with the Avengers with all the glory he’s desperate to reach in attempts to prove himself to the country, at least he’ll have a good workout regimen to keep in mind. He’s never been in as good of shape as he is now thanks to Natasha’s brutal training programs. It also might have something to do with the fact that he can’t skip out on practices as much as he used to when Obie was his coach and left him to his own devices as long as he could cinch them a win.

 

They arrive at the airport, check their bags, and Janet hands them their itineraries. It’s been a while since Tony’s traveled with a smaller group like this, enjoying the ease of it all. They have a couple hours layover in Kansas City, but are set to land in Vegas by early evening. Perfect, Tony has plenty of time to hit the casinos tonight.

 

Janet doesn’t let him stray too far from the gate, allowing Tony enough breathing room to get a coffee from one kiosk and add two shots of bourbon to it from a nearby bar. The cheap paper cup is drained by the time they board, Tony settling in next to Janet with Steve and Thor sitting behind them. He feels a bit like the class clown who gets stuck sitting at the front of the bus with the teacher on a field trip, but he actually doesn’t mind Janet all that much. Their families run in the same circles, the Van Dyne’s contracted by both the Major and Minor League’s for uniform design and other branding opportunities. Janet herself is the reason for the Avengers’ new uniform design that came about a few seasons ago, updating their color scheme to a sleek gunmetal and white with subtle accents of crimson. She sketches absentmindedly on a pad she brought, Tony occasionally taking a peek whenever his eyes stray from his light reading on thermonuclear astrophysics.

 

Tony sleeps through the second leg of their trip in preparation for the night ahead. After a bit of initial grogginess as they all file off the plane passes, Tony’s feeling awake and raring to go as they exit the airport. Media hounds are lined up outside, paparazzi with cameras and reporters with microphones trying to shove their way forward. Most if not all of the All-Star players are passing through this airport today, and every sports outlet is hoping to get any kind of quote from the players.

 

Janet ushers them along quickly, Tony stopping to sign a few autographs for some of the dedicated fans waiting for their arrival. This causes Thor to stop as well, and soon it’s both Janet and airport security trying to break apart the mini herd that had formed. Half of Tony’s signature gets a little mangled on a photo from his Playgirl shoot as Steve tugs him away by the elbow, but the woman looks thrilled either way.

 

There’s even more of them outside of the hotel, news evidently spreading rather quickly about where both teams’ players were staying. Tony squints against the flashing bulbs of the cameras and doesn’t stop for the fans this time, quickly escaping to the refuge of the lobby.

 

Other players from both leagues are getting checked into their rooms or conversing in the lobby. Tony recognizes a large of number of them, exchanging a few waves with some of his old Pacific Coast acquaintances who didn’t totally hate his guts when he played against them. A scan of the room showed no signs of any Irons players yet, but since they were fairly close, they might not be getting in until later tonight or early tomorrow.

 

Janet gets their keys from the receptionist, holding out one of the small envelopes between Tony and Steve. “You two will be rooming together. Thor, you’re down the hall staying with T’Challa Ukatana. I believe it’s his first season playing in the Triple-A, so make him feel welcome, yeah?”

 

Tony reaches out and grabs the key cards before they can be placed in Steve’s palm, but the older man doesn’t look too bothered by it, a thoughtful look on his face. “Wait, he used to be on the Panthers. I played against him in the World Series.”

 

“How long ago was that? A decade?” Tony snorts.

 

“Not sure, but I think you were still in diapers when we won,” Steve counters and quickly snatches the keys out of his hand. He slips them into his back pocket before Tony can make another grab for them.

 

“Boys, play nice,” Janet sighs. “I’ll see you in the morning for the meeting with Rezzo and the rest of the team, I don’t care what you all get up to tonight, but my one request is that you aren’t too hungover tomorrow… _Stark_ ,” she says, raising her eyebrows pointedly at him.

 

“You know, I really don’t appreciate being singled out like this,” Tony huffs, narrowed eyes still trained on Steve’s behind as he tries to figure the best way to go for the keys. Maybe he stares for a little longer than necessary, but no one seems to notice.

 

“If you decide to go out, please don’t go alone. Watch out for each other so I don’t have to, alright?” She points between all three of them now before grabbing her bags. “Now I will be lounging by the pool if anyone needs me. Please don’t,” She slips her sunglasses from the top of her head onto her nose and leaves them to their own devices.

 

“What do you say, big man?” Tony bumps his shoulder into Thor’s as they head for the elevators, a number of other players already crowding into the small space. Tony’s bags alone take up room for at least two and he ignores the dirty looks shot his way because of it. “Wanna come hit some tables with me tonight?”

 

“I’ll regretfully have to pass. Jane is in Arizona for a research project and is flying in tonight to visit,” Thor answers, getting that doe-eyed look in his eyes that makes bile rise up in Tony’s throat.

 

“Fair enough. Steve, guess that means you’re coming out with me, buddy system and all,” he grins, swatting Steve on the ass.

 

Steve immediately reaches back and grabs Tony by the wrist, bringing his hand forward to show that he had the hotel keys sandwiched between two of his fingers. Rather than take the keys back again, he drops Tony’s wrist, letting him have this win. “Only because if I don’t come with you, you’ll be out until ungodly hours getting absolutely trashed.”

 

“Yeah, so now _we_ can be out until ungodly hours getting absolutely trashed,” Tony replies smugly as they get off the elevator. Steve helps him cart all his belongings down the long hallway, Tony victoriously being the one to unlock the door first. He concedes one of the two keys over to Steve, only because he knows he’ll probably lose his own.

 

“Fuck, seriously?” Tony groans in annoyance as they step into the room. It’s still large and lavish, a huge bathroom and en suite kitchen available to them, a great view of the glittering city below from their large window. The only problem is that the two queen-sized beds are in one shared room.

 

“Tony, you have to share rooms all the time when we travel, I thought you would’ve gotten used to it by now,” Steve sighs, moving past him to start putting some of his things away on one side of the room. “Just be happy you’re rooming with someone you know and not a stranger.”

 

Janet probably did this on purpose to make sure Steve could keep an eye on Tony and also to make sure he didn’t end up in a room with some player who hated his guts. Everyone is supposed to be a united front for the All-Star game, but even Tony had his own is when he played for the PCL a couple of years ago. Some rivalries aren’t as easy to just lay aside.

 

“Whatever. I’m going to shower and get this plane stink off, then we’re going out,” Tony hangs his suits in the closet before slipping into the bathroom.

 

He jerks off in the shower. He can’t help it, knowing he’s probably not going to get laid all week with Steve as his roommate. He can maybe pray for some good timing, or try and find someone else with their own room he can retreat to for an hour or so of fun, but it’s certainly not going to happen tonight with Steve babysitting him. They have a few days before the game and then get to stay an extra night after, so if Tony really tries, he can probably find a window of opportunity to get his rocks off elsewhere.

 

Tony feels refreshed and relaxed after the shower, coming out in a big fluffy robe with a towel laying on top of his head. Steve has changed out of his sweats and is wearing dark jeans and a plaid button up shirt, sitting up in bed flipping through a book. “You’re seriously going to go out like that?” Tony asks with a wrinkled nose. “You look like a dad.”

 

Steve’s eyebrow twitches in irritation and his blue eyes flicker up from the book. “Sorry that I didn’t bring my entire wardrobe with me.”

 

Tony doesn’t dignify the dig with a response as he walks over to the closet, unzipping his garment bags to try and pick what he’s in the mood for tonight. He pulls out some fitted grey slacks and a dark red shirt, forgoing the suit jacket for now. He stands in front of the mirror, tucking the shirt into his pants and noticing the way the fabric stretches a little bit tighter around his shoulders and chest. He hasn’t had too many of his older suits re-fitted since arriving in New York, but he was sure there were a few tailors he could get some recommendations on. Tony adds a thin gold chain around his neck, dipping his hands into some of his mousse to slick his hair back while it’s still damp. He glances back at Steve who is still unassumingly sitting on the bed, probably reading a bible or something.

 

Tony exhales loudly and walks over to him, gesturing with his hand for Steve to stand. It goes ignored. He rolls his eyes and goes over to the edge of the bed, grabbing Steve’s hand and tugging uselessly. Like he’s capable enough to get Michelangelo’s David out of bed based on strength alone…

 

With a sigh of his own, Steve humors him and bookmarks the page he’s on, closing the book and standing. He towers over Tony like this now, having a good eight inches or so on the billionaire. “Can I help you?” He asks dryly.

 

“You can let _me_ help _you_ ,” Tony answered. “Come on, we can make this work. I mean, this is just _not_ going to cut it. Now, most of my clothes are custom made or tailored, so they’re not going to fit you, but surely you brought something else,” he goes over to Steve's closet and dresser drawers, immediately combing through his very limited options. The best thing he finds is a simple, pressed white dress shirt and a hideous brown sports jacket.

 

Steve apparently notes his disdain. “That’s all I brought in terms of any kind of ‘formal wear’ and they’re for the press junkets after the game.”

 

“Ugh,” Tony eloquently replies before hanging the jacket back up and tossing the shirt Steve’s way. “Just change into that. No undershirt.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes but otherwise re-dresses his top half protest-free. Tony pretends he’s not ogling Steve’s shirtless form through the large mirror on the wall, but maybe he makes sure he’s standing in an advantageous position to peek at him through the reflection.

 

“Happy?” Steve asks, holding his arms out in approval.

 

He isn’t, not really. Steve still looks woefully _plain_ , which is just a shame considering the physique hiding away under the boring clothing. Tony spares a glance at the ties he had brought with him to try and add some color in, but quickly nixes the idea. Not with those _jeans_ , he doesn’t. Steve would be walking around with him looking like one of his college professors, and not even the hot Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones kind, even if Steve had the best chance out of anyone to try and pull that off.

 

Tony grabs a little bit of leftover pomade clinging to the lid of his jar and walks over to Steve. He holds his hands up in the air expectantly, motioning for Steve to lower his head. Steve narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Unlike you, I don’t want to look like I _own_ the place.”

 

“You know, I would be offended by that comment, but considering I could easily buy out most of the casinos here, and I’m getting judgement on my fashion choices from a guy who was about to wear a _flannel_ on a night out. Now head down, Gigantor.”

 

Steve willingly ducks his head slightly so that Tony can reach. He assimilates the blonde locks into something a little more styled, sweeping the longer pieces of hair back from his face and defining his part a little more. He hears an involuntary hum escape Steve as his fingers card carefully through his hair, the sound definitely piquing Tony’s interest.

 

“There,” Tony grabs a hand towel to wipe off the remainder of the substance. He walks back over to Steve and reaches up to undo two more buttons. He then grabs the cuffs of the shirt and unbuttons those as well, rolling them up to expose Steve’s toned forearms. He follows the natural line of Steve’s body, grabbing him by the belt next.

 

“Whoa now,” Steve cautions, his hips moving back away from Tony.

 

“Relax, Cap, I’m just going to swap out your belt,” Tony scoffs. “I’m not some queer trying to have a go. You’d be so lucky.”

 

Steve just grunts in a reply and takes matters into his own hands, unbuckling the belt and placing it in Tony’s waiting hand. Tony puts it aside and digs through his own drawers, finding a sleek black belt with a designer buckle. He tosses the belt to Steve this time, seeing the way he reacted when Tony got a bit too close and personal with his bits. He lets his eyes trail lower, at least pleased that Steve had the mind to wear a casual dress shoe.

 

He catches Steve checking out his appearance in the mirror on their way out and not looking completely displeased. Tony’s smug as he holds the door open for Steve, pushing the red-lensed Ray Bans up on his nose. “After you.”

 

Their hotel is right on the strip, and conveniently connected to one of the larger casinos in the area. Tony knows most of the places around here and is sure they’ll bounce between a few locations tonight, but he wants to start strong. Going to Caesars Palace was just asking to get swarmed considering the high amount of sports betting that went on there. A little too high profile when it was just him and Steve going out without additional security detail.

 

Tony ends up letting Steve pick where they go first as they make their way through the crowded streets, the sun having just set. There are already plenty of inebriated tourists and locals alike bumping into each other, people in all sorts of crazy outfits coming from and going to the different shows around the area.

 

It’s almost innocent, the way Steve points out the large fountain in front of the Aria saying how much he likes it. Tony grins, shaking his head. Of all the things to go to the Aria for, Tony’s first choice on the list is not architectural in nature. The Sin City would eat this man alive if given the chance.

 

“Alright, Aria it is,” Tony grabs Steve’s hand and takes off across the street, ignoring his protests about walking the extra half block to a crosswalk. Law enforcement in Vegas had a lot more to worry about than a couple of jaywalkers on The Strip.

 

They enter the bustling lobby, discordant sounds coming from every direction from slot machines, people proclaiming their victories and mourning their losses loudly from table to table. Tony debates for a moment whether or not he should just go straight for the Jewel Nightclub upstairs, but something makes him think Steve won’t go for that. At least not just yet.

 

“What tickles your fancy here?” Tony asks as they start walking through the casino areas, weaving their way around the bright, attractive gambling machines, hostesses with trays held up above the crowd, and swaths of people crowded around different tables. “I’m a bit of a Craps man myself, but I don’t know what you’re into.”

 

“I don’t really gamble,” Steve says over all the noise, dutifully walking side-by-side with Tony.

 

“Hm. Poker it is then,” Tony decides, not stopping to ask whether or not Steve knows how to play. Every thirty-something year old knows how to play Poker. They hop on an escalator to take them up to the second level of the casino. There are individual half-rooms pocketed around the outer ring of the floor with separating walls made out of oversized glass playing cards that glitter like diamonds in the light.

 

“Oh, Mr. Stark!” Someon is suddenly calling out to them as they walk into one of the Poker rooms, Tony turning to see a portly man dressed in all black walking up to them. The name tag on his lapel indicates he’s a manager of some kind, but as far as Tony’s concerned, he’s never seen the guy before. “I had no idea you’d be visiting us tonight! You should have called ahead, we would’ve prepared private rooms, our best girls, we’re so happy to see you back at the Aria!” He grins toothily at him, capturing him in a vigorous handshake.

 

Tony just nods along with it. “Ah, it was sort of a last minute decision. We don’t need anything special tonight though, just showing my Captain here the ropes,” he jerks his head over to where Steve is standing awkwardly off to the side.

 

“But of course!” The man replies compliantly, finally releasing Tony’s hand. He wipes it off on the side of his thigh when the man turns away. “Come, come, right this way, we’ll get you to some of our best tables in the house.”

 

Tony glances back at Steve and just shrugs, letting the man put a hand on his back to guide him over to another pod of tables. He snaps his fingers at a nearby waitress standing by the bar. “What can I get you boys to drink? Anything at all, it’s on the house. I’ll have Lana here be your personal waitress tonight.” He pulls a velvet rope aside to another one of the card rooms that appears the same as the rest minus the exclusivity barrier in front of the entrance.

 

“I insist on paying, buddy,” Tony smiles and pulls a wad of hundreds out of his pocket, sliding it into the man’s pocket. “I’ll start with some gin and tonics and you can keep them coming. Steve?”

 

He almost expects the offer to get turned down. He’s never seen Steve enjoy more than the occasional two-dollar beer whenever he ends up going out. “I’ll have an Old Fashioned, please.”

 

Tony’s eyes quirk upward, impressed as the man darts off to pass the orders along to Lana. “Keep those Old Fashioneds coming too!” He calls after the manager, the man giving a thumbs up in acknowledgement. “Alright, let’s get started then,” he cracks his knuckles before walking up to the kiosk on the wall to trade in their cash for chips.

 

As he passes over the bundles and lets the casino worker tally it up, Steve grabs his shoulder, making a choking sound in his throat. “Tony, how much is that?”

 

“Fifty thousand,” Tony blinks up at him. “I figured that’s plenty allowance for the both of us, but if you want more—”

 

“Tony,” Steve balks at him as the woman slides open the little glass door and gives Tony all of his chips. “That’s insane.”

 

Tony shrugs at him and divides the packets of chips in half, sliding twenty-five grand’s worth over to the other man. “Guess you’ll be glad it’s my money and not your own then, huh?” He grins up at him, patting him on the back before they make their way over to a table that’s clearing up two spots just for them. Lana swoops in and sets down their drinks on the table in front of them along with a promise to bring more as soon as they’re out. Tony sets an additional couple hundred dollar tip on her tray, giving her a wink before he twists back to the table, putting his sunglasses on top of his head. “Ready to pop your cherry?” He asks Steve with a grin, watching the way the man’s Adam's apple bobs as he takes a long swig of the Old Fashioned.

 

“I suppose,” Steve responds unenthusiastically, gritting his teeth slightly at the bitter, poignant taste of the drink.

 

What surprises him is how well Steve does for himself. He wins the first hand, Tony staring at him in surprise as he accepts his winnings and the croupier deals out the cards for another game. “I thought you didn’t gamble.”

 

“I said I don’t gamble, I didn’t say I don’t play Poker,” And Steve, the little shit, actually flashes him a cocky grin before accepting a fresh refill from Lana.

 

Steve continues to bet modestly, but is doing rather well for himself. Tony can’t help but fidget in agitation every time he can figure out that Steve knows when he’s going to win a hand, but doesn’t raise or even call.

 

Tony loses spectacularly. They walk away with an almost cosmic distribution of Steve being a little richer and Tony’s pockets being significantly lighter. He’s never been one for Poker, even if he can usually use statistics and his uncanny ability to read people to his advantage. He doesn’t see the fun in betting all his chips on a game like that, knowing he’ll have more fun at one of the Blackjack tables or even Roulette. Lady Luck tended to be on his side in these types of situations, but that could also be because Tony didn’t gamble to necessarily garner a profit, but to just feel that delicious high of risk-reward he so often craved.

 

Lana dutifully follows them as they made their way around the casino, Steve still drinking his little tumblers of whiskey at a much slower pace than Tony is getting his drinks at. He’s switched over to vodka sours at this point, sucking one of the round cherry bulbs with the stem hanging out between his teeth. They squeeze their way in front of a crowd at a roulette table, Tony eyeing his partner.

 

“Bet five grand on red,” he dares.

 

Steve scoffs, shaking his head. “That might work for you, but I don’t really like those odds.”

 

“Steve, it’s _my_ money, you can do whatever you want with it. You literally have nothing to lose,” Tony groans. “ _Come on_ , live a little!”

 

“I can do whatever I want with it, and that doesn’t include throwing five thousand dollars on a 50/50 game of chance.”

 

“Fine,” Tony sighed dramatically before waving at the table worker. “Fifteen thousand on red!”

 

The entire table turns to stare at him, his Captain included. “Tony—”

 

“Fifteen thousand on red for Mr. Stark,” the dealer encourages as he places Tony’s chip, the entire table cheering in approval. He’s a young man, tall and thin with caramel skin and dazzling brown eyes that are now locked on Tony’s with intent. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”

 

The exchange appears to be imperceptible to the rest of the table, other patrons quickly placing their bets, attention diverted elsewhere. Tony makes a sound in his throat and turns a ninety degrees so that he’s facing Steve. He takes a long sip of his vodka sour, Steve doing a slight double take when he glances over and realizes Tony is staring at him and not at the table.

 

“I’m not gonna look,” he explains to the unasked question. “I’m just gonna watch your face and it’ll tell me whether or not I lost fifteen grand or now have thirty to take over to Craps.”

 

Steve shakes his head, gaze flickering between the placed bets and Tony’s face. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

 

The last bets are placed and Tony can hear the ivory pill rocket its way around the spinning wheel, bouncing this way and that before it begins to settle. He can feel the telltale lurch in the room of everyone scanning the wheel as the velocity of it begins to slow, the blur of reds and blacks becoming clearer and clearer until the viewers can see exactly where it lands. Tony is about four gin and tonics, seven cherry vodkas, and one Long Island iced tea deep by now, something telling him that even if he was looking at the wheel, those colors would still be blurring even after it had come to a stop.

 

The table erupts into cheers, Tony feeling elated gazes turn in his direction and a few hands reaching out to give him a congratulatory pat on the back or shake of the shoulder. He ignores it all to watch Steve’s expression, not seeing any shock or euphoria, instead only getting a close-mouthed smile stretching across Steve’s lips, his eyes closing as he gives a small shake of his head. Tony knows the look well by this point: an understated, amused disbelief at his antics. A mirthful grin he’s trying to fight to try and preemptively avoid an I-told-you-so.

 

He gets a warmer rush from that look on Steve’s face than the thirty-thousand he may or may not be taking home.

 

Tony doesn’t remember if they make it to the Craps table at all, the rest of the night turning into an indistinct blur once they leave victorious from Roulette. He can almost recall Lana’s voice asking if he’s okay, Steve’s hands locked around his upper arms, a weightlessness with dangling legs and a warm mass pressed against his front, the sound of running water.

 

And then it’s morning, and far, far too bright. Tony shifts in bed, groping blindly for a pillow to pull over his head in a vain attempt to block out the light. He’s laying on his stomach, face pressed into the mattress when he feels a weight shift on the bed next to him. He kicks his foot out instinctively, feeling it connect with something solid.

 

“Ow,” he hears Steve’s muffled voice before there’s a hand shoving his foot back into the tangle of sheets. “Get up.”

 

Tony barely lifts up the pillow to peak out from under it, squinting harshly into the light of the room. “Mph… Timeizzit?”

 

“Half-past ten. We need to be in the conference room downstairs in fifteen, get moving.”

 

Tony moans in protest, curling his body into a tighter fetal position. Steve cruelly removes the pillow from the top of his head, light exploding into his vision. The pounding headache comes on in full force then, Tony’s hands coming up weakly to cover his face.

 

“Fuck,” he sighs, eventually dragging himself into a sitting position. He really should be used to these kind of hangovers by now, but drinking as much as he did after traveling usually sets him off kilter a bit. He blinks the blurriness from his vision, realizing Steve is holding out a tall glass filled with a familiar red concoction complete with a celery stalk garnish. “You ordered this from room service?” Tony asks in a pleasant sort of surprise, immediately taking the cool glass from him and chugging down half the contents.

 

“You wish I was that sympathetic,” Steve replies with a small smile. “No, Janet had it sent up.”

 

“The foresight on that one is commendable,” Tony murmurs, happily crunching on the celery. “D’you have fun last night?”

 

Steve sits down on his own bed, facing Tony. “I don’t know if that’s the word I would use. It was certainly entertaining.” He nods towards an envelope sitting on the table in the corner. “I collected your winnings for you after you go too drunk to walk out of the place.”

 

Tony downs the rest of the Bloody Mary as he slowly eases himself out of bed. He’s wearing the same clothes from last night, shirt untucked and rumpled from sleep. “So how’d we end up back here then? You fireman carry me all the way home?” Tony asks in amusement, peeking into the envelope. There’s still a hefty sum of cash stacked inside, not that Tony really cares how much he won or lost.

 

“Piggyback, actually,” Steve corrects. “That would’ve been sometime after you had Lana shower you in an entire bottle of champagne, but before you threw up in a potted plant in the lobby,” he’s barely fighting a smirk.

 

Tony scoffs to play off his embarrassment, realizing now that parts of his clothes did feel rather sticky and reek of champagne. He tosses the envelope into Steve’s lap. “It’s all yours buddy. Consider it payment for babysitting last night.” Before Steve can protest he strides into the bathroom to clean himself up.

 

He admittedly doesn’t look fantastic by the time he and Steve head downstairs, exactly one minute before eleven, when the meeting is supposed to begin (which is still _early_ , to his defense). They’re the last players to arrive, Janet shooting a dirty but knowing look their way as they take their seats next to her and Thor. She reaches over and catches the stem of Tony’s sunglasses on one finger, pulling them away from his face to examine his bloodshot eyes and dark circles. Neither of them exchange words, but Tony can sense the disapproval radiating from her as she shoves them back up onto his nose and sits back in her chair. She’d rake him over the coals for it later, but at least he actually made it.

 

Tony hardly pays attention during the meeting, most of it just to acknowledge all the players who were called up for the game and to get to know which position everyone is in and who substitutes are. There’s only one other pitcher than Tony, the third selection calling out last minute due to an injury. This happens sometimes when it comes to the All-Star Game, but between himself and Norfolk’s Alston Bender they'll manage just fine. Bender will be the starting pitcher with Tony coming in as relief, information he already knows which is another reason this get-together is pointless.

 

They have scheduled evening practices at Cashman Field for the next two days leading up to the actual game, everyone loading up on the bus a few hours later to get some time in. As they pull up to the stadium, there’s a second bus there waiting to pick up the PCL team who gets field usage in the morning. Tony enters the stadium with the rest of his teammates when a gratingly familiar voice echoes out through the entrance tunnel.

 

“My, my, my, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Stark?”

 

A few of the players around Tony glance back over their shoulders, only faltering their step for a moment before they decide to keep walking. Tony does come to a full stop, turning around with his hands in his jacket pockets. “Hammer,” he greets evenly. “I’m surprised they let you back in after the shit show of a performance you gave three years back.”

 

A few of the PCL players are filtering out of the Stadium now, Hammer and three other Irons players having stopped when they spotted Tony. Spotted is a generous word, Tony thinking that it isn’t an unrealistic notion that Hammer had just been lying in wait to try and “bump into him” during the bit of crossover the teams had in the trade-off.

 

“I was a fan favorite choice this year,” he brags loudly. Tony had almost forgotten how awful his timbre was. _Almost_. “And you’re one to talk after being put in the corner for a whole year after the tantrum you threw.”

 

Tony’s fists clench deep in his pockets and he hopes Hammer doesn’t notice. He flickers his eyes over the rest of the Irons players— Kanes, Wellens, and Longoria. “Well the PCL really must be lacking if they let you lot play in the All-Star game. But I guess the Irons try to whore out anyone what with their star player being gone.”

 

The insufferable group laughs at him, Hammer’s guffaw the loudest. “As always, you’re all talk. Our supposed ‘Star player’ didn’t even make it to the championship last year, or did you forget? Was it too hard to pay attention with Steve Rogers’ cock in your mouth?”

 

Tony just smiles and shakes his head, unsure how he’s able to keep from running forward and grabbing Hammer by the neck. Maybe his impulse control is improving after all. “I don’t know, I’m a pretty good multitasker. I paid enough attention to not miss the fact that you only played a total of six games last season, all of them under four innings. Your on-base stats actually really impressed me; I didn’t know you could get numbers _that low \_.”

 

He can’t stop the smile of satisfaction that spreads on his face when he sees Hammer’s expression crack, his teammates not even gracious enough to hold back their snickering.

 

“Hey!” Another familiar voice booms from the entryway. “You four chucklefucks wanna tell me what you’re doing dicking around and not getting on the bus?”

 

Tony is actually taken by surprise this time at the bald-headed figure he sees silhouetted from the outside light. “Obie?” He asks, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

 

The man walks forward, glaring sharply at his players who mutter their apologies and hurry off to the bus, Hammer shooting him one last smarmy look before he goes. Tony steps closer now, staring at his former coach in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought Hansen was the coach for the PCL’s team this year.”

 

“He was,” Obadiah answered simply, drawing himself up to his full, proud height. “He had to pull out last minute for a family emergency, so the board elected me to step in and fill his place.”

 

“Oh,” Tony blinks, unsure of why he’s so surprised. Obadiah is still a relatively new coach, having taken the role the same year Tony started playing in 1985. The Irons have been a successful team because of him, but they usually don’t just choose the All-Star coach based on a single coach’s performance. Obadiah’s methods are known for being harsh, his strategy underhanded at best. Not the exact character type the MiLB is usually looking to promote as a leading force to one of their leagues, but to Tony he was just an old family friend whose bark was worse than his bite. “Well, congratulations, I bet Howard’s pretty happy about it.”

 

“He is. The Irons are well represented this year…” Both of their gazes trail back to where Hammer & Co. just exited. “Well… with one exception.”

 

The two of them share a grin and Tony can’t help but wrap his arms around the man in a tight hug. “I miss you, Obie,” he confesses against the man’s chest.

 

“I miss you too, Tony. The team misses you, even if they don’t want to admit it,” his chest vibrates with laughter as he gives his former player a squeeze. “You sure there’s no way I can convince you to come back? We don’t have to tell your dad.”

 

Tony laughs and pulls away. “Maybe next season. We’ll see how it goes.”

 

Obadiah ruffles the top of his hair, eyes twinkling. “Looks good on you kid, as much as I hate to admit it. You look strong. Healthy. You’re playing better too. I mean, you’ve always been amazing, but Romanoff must be doing something right if she’s been able to keep you in line this long.”

 

Tony hears some footsteps from behind him, turning to see Steve approaching. “Tony, Rezzo’s looking for you, wanted to know what the hold up is. Hello, Coach Stane,” he greets with a polite nod, holding a hand out.

 

“Captain Rogers,” Obadiah gives him a firm shake before patting Tony twice on the back, hard enough to send him towards Steve by a couple of steps. “You take care of this one, alright? He may be an Avenger now, but he’ll always be my boy. I taught him everything he knows.”

 

Steve smiles but it looks tense. “I think Tony’s more self-taught, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Tony watches the exchange in interest, narrowing his eyes slightly at Steve, unsure of exactly what he’s trying to accomplish here. If it’s a pissing contest, he sure as hell isn’t getting in the way. Obadiah levels a gaze at him and nods. “Perhaps. Have a good practice, gentleman.” He winks conspiratorially at Tony before walking away.

 

Steve places a hand on his shoulder and starts guiding him to the locker room. “What was that about?” Tony grouses.

 

“I just don’t want anyone getting in your head.”

 

Tony isn’t sure why Steve has the impression that he’d be susceptible to anything that some old teammates or his old coach had to say to him, but he doesn’t press the matter any further. He changes into his cleats and hurries out onto the field to work with Bender and the team’s catchers so they can get used to the interaction between one another to try and build seamless exchanges.

 

Once all the individual positions finish their focused trainings, Tony and Bender switch off to throw pitches for batting practice. The team’s pitchers are replaced with designated hitters for the All-Star Game, so Tony isn’t going to see any base action this game. That’s alright with him for once, all of his focus solely dedicated to pitching. Rezzo blows the whistle at him twice after completely striking out a handful of his teammates, the man reminding him that he can throw good pitches while still giving the opportunity for the batters to hit it. Tony thinks this is a little counterproductive, since he should be trying to challenge his teammates as much as possible so they’re prepared to hit any kind of pitch thrown their way, but he takes Rezzo’s direction and reformulates his strategy to allow the batters a _chance_ at hitting the ball.

 

Tony takes a second shower when they get back to the hotel, the quick rinse-off with freezing cold water after practice not really doing enough for him. Steam clouds the bathroom by the time he’s finished, drying off and bundling himself in a robe before stepping out into his shared room with Steve. He flicks through his closet, pouring over his options.

 

“Going out again tonight?” Steve asks, sitting up against his headboard as he flips through TV channels. “Do you really think that’s the best idea?”

 

Tony rolls his eyes at the parental tone. “I’m just going to grab drinks with some buddies.” He chews on the inside of his cheek, wondering if he’s obligated to invite Steve along as his roommate for the weekend. It feels a little rude bringing it up and not inviting him, but since when did Tony care about not being rude to his Captain? “I won’t be out too late. And I’ll… limit myself,” he grudgingly reassures. Really, he should be allowed to drink as much as he wants. He doesn’t even have to worry about running drills, which would easily be the culprit of causing him to lose his lunch all over the field.

 

Steve makes an interested noise from the bed, Tony glancing back at him. He’s smiling faintly and gestures to the TV with the remote. “ _Spartacus_ is on,” he explains. “I love this movie.”

 

“Never seen it,” Tony muses, straying closer.

 

Steve turns a wide-eyed stare at him. “You’ve never seen _Spartacus_? What is wrong with you?”

 

“Sorry that I don’t make it a habit to see movies that came out a _decade_ before I was born, Grandpa.”

 

He narrowly avoids the pillow that Steve chucks at his head. “I was only three when this came out, so shut it. Besides, everyone should see _Spartacus_ , it’s great.”

 

Tony wanders closer, sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed to stare curiously at a monologuing Kirk Douglas. “I’ve read the novel. And a couple of biographies. You know the famous ‘I’m Spartacus’ moment was never actually documented by historians? Fast made it up for his version.”

 

“You know everything, don’t you?” Steve asks with a laugh. Tony expects the comment to be scathing, but Steve actually sounds amused more than anything. “You really should see it though. It looks like it just started too.”

 

Tony glances back towards his cell phone sitting on the bed. He’s already a half hour late to the restaurant he was supposed to be meeting his old gambling buddies at, so there’s no harm in sparing a little more time to see if the movie adaptation is any good. “Yeah, okay, I’ll give it a scene or two,” he complies, laying down on his stomach with his head at the foot of Steve’s bed, ankles crossed in the air behind him. Steve turns up the volume and flicks off the lights for a proper viewing experience.

 

The movie actually isn’t half-bad. It’s enough to keep Tony’s full attention, evening plans all but forgotten as he watches the Roman tragedy unfold in front of him. His exhaustion from staying out so late the evening before catches up to him unexpectedly right as Spartacus and Antoninus begin their fight to the death, his eyelids beginning to droop. Tony does his best to stay awake, fighting his own battle against sleep, but ends up following the lead of his on-screen namesake and succumbs to his opponent.

 

Tony wakes abruptly the next morning, the sky outside only just beginning to lighten as dawn creeps over the horizon. The community below is starting to shuffle home, ready to sleep off their bad decisions, or possibly keep making them depending on the company. His neck is sore, and he has to reorient himself when he realizes he slept upside down and on top of his blankets for some reason.

 

He’s in Steve’s bed. Tony sits up suddenly, staring at the lump under the covers next to him. Steve is on his side, facing away from him, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Tony had passed out next to him.

 

Nonplussed by the predicament he had put himself in, Tony carefully eases himself off the bed as not to wake up his sleeping Captain, and tiptoes his way over to his own bed. He slips under the covers, yanking them up to his chin. He ignores the hot feeling of shame that runs through him for his carelessness and does his best to fall back asleep to get at least another hour of shut-eye. He’s not quite sure how successful he is, hanging in that sort of limbo state of semi-consciousness where it seems that within one blink it’s suddenly much brighter in the room, and Steve’s alarm is going off on the bedside table between them.

 

Tony stays still as he hears Steve roll over to turn the blaring device off. He closes his eyes, feigning sleep as Steve begins shuffling about the room, eventually making his way into the en suite bathroom. Once Tony hears the shower going he gets up himself, changing into some comfortable athletic wear before calling in their breakfast order to room service.

 

It arrives within ten minutes, a baby-faced bellhop wheeling the cart of breakfast food and freshly brewed coffee into the room and nervously accepting Tony’s very gracious tip. As he settles onto a stool by the breakfast bar in the kitchen, the bathroom door opens and Steve emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist. Tony has a brief moment of eye contact before Steve disappears behind the wall that separates the bedroom from the rest of the suite.

 

“Did you enjoy last night?”

 

Tony is grateful he’s out of Steve’s view so the man doesn’t witness him choking on his mouthful of poached eggs. He takes a gulp of the bittersweet coffee, not caring how much he burns his mouth as long as he can get everything down the right pipe. “Wh-What?”

 

Steve emerges from their room in track pants with a t-shirt slung over one shoulder. “The movie. Did you like it?”

 

The movie. Of course. “Uh, yeah, it wasn’t half bad.”

 

“Good. That smells delicious,” Steve comments, walking over and grabbing his plate off the tray so he can join Tony, standing on the opposite side of the counter. “Thor and I were planning on going on a run this morning. I think T’Challa and some of the other players might join us too. Do you want to come along?”

 

And just like that, Steve glosses right over Tony falling asleep next to him last night. Granted, it wasn’t like they had been spooned together; Tony doubts they had even touched last night. He doesn’t really have any concerns with what happened himself, most of his worries centered around Steve making assumptions about his intentions. “I think I’ll pass,” he says eventually.

 

Steve shrugs, crunching on perfectly crisped bacon. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you later.” He inhales a few more bites of food before pulling his shirt on and heading out the door, leaving Tony to his own conflicted thoughts.

 

He hangs around their room for a while longer, flips through channels on the TV, people-watches from the balcony, has a brief but fulfilling phone call with Pepper who didn’t accompany Obadiah on the trip, but would be arriving before the game tomorrow. A group of the Avengers are arriving in the morning as well, regular league play taking a break for the couple of days surrounding the All-Star match.

 

He eventually strays out of the room to roam through the rest of the hotel, occasionally passing by some other players both from the International and Pacific Coast Leagues. He meets a few fans as he ambles about, signing autographs and answering a couple of questions before he finds an excuse to leave and spend some time at one of the many bars on the lower levels. He doesn’t link up with Steve again until it’s time to go back to Cashman.

 

Luckily, he doesn’t have the displeasure of running into Hammer at the hotel or the stadium when they arrive for their second and last day of practice. This time they run through a couple of scrimmages, splitting the team in half so everyone gets their opportunity at both offensive and defensive positions. He and Bender trade off, Tony analyzing his pitching style while he waits on the sidelines. He’s not as precise as Tony, but he’s definitely got the skill and strategy that will make for a strong opener for the team and someone Tony isn’t embarrassed to call his partner in this. Really, sharing the mound with a blind, one-armed monkey would still be a step-up from sharing it with Hammer.

 

Tony passes out as soon as they get back from dinner (on his own bed this time) and manages to sleep soundly until Steve’s alarm rouses him for Game Day. They have to get down to the field bright and early for the pre-game interviews, but then it’s go time.

 

The team is broken into either pairs or small groups to make their way down the line of reporters waiting outside of the stadium. It’s a little more chaotic than a normal press conference would be, but still an efficient method. Tony does interviews with Bender, sure to heed Janet’s advice and make sure he doesn’t completely talk over the Virginia-born player. There are a few reporters who definitely prioritize him when it comes to the questions, namely asking about how it feels to be back after the scandal from two-years prior, and what it’s like to now be on the International’s side. He calmly guides the questions back towards the present-day game, thinking that Pepper and Janet would both be very impressed with his professionalism.

 

“Tony!” Thor jogs over to him after his last interview. “I got the team’s box number. Steve and I were just about to head up and say hello before the game.”

 

Tony’s mood improves significantly once they step into the Avengers’ private box, familiar, less hostile faces greeting him. Only about a third of the team have come out, most of the others utilizing their couple days of break to spend time with their families or just have a relaxing weekend to themselves. Rhodes immediately surges out of the group to capture him in a warm hug.

 

“Good to know Rezzo hasn’t torn you to pieces yet,” The man says with a grin, patting Tony on the back.

 

“As if I’d let him,” Natasha says off to the side, cracking open a bottle of beer on the edge of the counter. “That’s my job.”

 

“No Bruce?” Tony asks, looking around. He sees the familiar faces of Quill, Shade, Maximoff, and a few others on the team he’s not as close with, but there is no sign of his fellow brainiac on the team.

 

“Nah, you know how he gets on planes,” Rhodey shrugs helplessly. “Doesn’t travel if he doesn’t have to.”

 

“Right,” Tony nods, a bit of disappointment there. He’s happy to see Rhodey and the rest of the team, but he really had been hoping he could convince the introverted man to try and hit the town with him after the game. That was sure to lead to trouble, and Tony did love getting himself into (and out of) sticky situations.

 

It’s a nice, private area, a kitchen with a fridge stocked with beer and a buffet of all the best baseball foods lined up along one wall. Glass doors on the opposite end of the room lead out to the balcony portion of seating, three rows sectioned off just for them with a great view of the field. Tony notes Thor standing off to the side, holding a brunette woman in his arms who must be Jane while talking to a tall, gaunt-faced man with long raven hair that Tony doesn’t recognize at all. Steve is outside, leaning casually against the railing as he converses with Barton and Lang.

 

They don’t have long to stay and chat, needing to get down to their designated locker room to get changed and warm up as fans start entering the stadium. “Make us proud, boys!” Natasha calls out the door to them, a raucous cheer coming from the room as they head out of it. Tony turns left with Thor to head back down the stairs, but Steve starts in the opposite direction.

 

“Where are you headed off to?” Tony asks, hesitating at the top of the steps.

 

“Just going to say hi really quick to a friend that came out to see the game. You guys go on without me, I’ll be right down,” Steve waves them off and sets off at a quick jog.

 

Curiosity burns inside of Tony along with another corrosive feeling he can’t quite place. He follows after Thor, security leading them to the elevators not accessible by the public to take them down to the base level of the stadium.

 

Tony changes into his away game Avengers uniform, a temporary patch sewn onto the shoulder indicating the All-Star Logo, also emblazoned on the black cap pulled down onto his head. Each player would be wearing their respective team’s uniforms, the visiting International League in their gray road uniforms, while the home team of the Pacifics adorn their white attire.

 

Tony is hyper aware that Steve’s little detour takes him an additional twenty minutes before he rejoins the rest of their team, and the fact that he takes note of this is infuriating. Before the game begins, they all gather around Rezzo to be inspired by some rousing speech in the tunnel. The man is confident and well-spoken, a very good choice to helm the best of the best from the IL and definitely less abrasive than Whitaker had been. They line up to head onto the field first, basemen in the front, fielders and designated players taking up the middle, while the pitchers bring up the rear. Tony is the very last player in line as the relief pitcher, adrenaline roaring in his ears as they wait for their cue to walk out, the sound of cheering all around them deafening.

 

They’re all announced by name as they line up on one side of the field, all twenty-seven of them being met with a cheers from the crowd above. The Pacific League comes out after them to the same reception, Tony immediately catching Hammer’s eye. The bastard has the nerve to wink at him and spit on the ground as they line up opposite. Tony doesn’t care who sees it, there’s no way he’s shaking that fucker’s hand after all is said and done.

 

They proceed through the motions. Everyone stands and removes their hats for the national anthem, Rezzo and Obadiah both say their peace before shaking hands, and the announcers remind everyone to stick around after the game ends to see which player from each team wins the coveted MVP award, and then it’s time. The organ-player slams away at the keys as everyone takes their positions, a chorus of “Play ball!” erupting from the spectators.

 

_“And here we go, ladies and gentlemen, we thank you all for tuning into the pre-game show, but now it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for. The PCL look strong today with Herrin as their starting pitcher, but who does the International team have in store? Oh— What’s that sound I hear? Do you hear that, Jim?”_

 

_“I certainly do, Ed. The skies are certainly clear today, not a cloud in sight, but somehow I think that sounds like—_

 

_“Thunderrrrrrr!!!”_

 

_“Indeed it is! Folks listening at home, we have a sound booth meant to block out any outside noise of the rowdy crowd here today, but I’m pretty sure even our microphones are picking up on this rolling thunder!”_

 

_“First up to bat for the International League is none other than the Manhattan Avengers’ proclaimed God of Thunder! I swear, the entire stadium is quaking right now under the pressure of these thousands of feet stomping right now to announce the arrival of the International League’s Designated Hitter, ‘Thor’ Odinson. Now, Thor isn’t his real name of course, his real name is… Hm… Can’t make this out at all— Jim, can you read this?”_

 

_“I can read it, but I sure as hell am not going to embarrass myself by trying to pronounce it, Eddie Boy.”_

 

_“Fair enough. Odinson is one of three Designated Hitters for the IL, meaning he sits at the tip-tippy-tippity-top of the batting order and fills in for the pitcher as far as offense goes. Speaking of which, you can see his fellow teammate and relief pitcher for the All-Star Game, Tony Stark off to the side alongside Steve Rogers as they show their support for their teammate!”_

 

_“Aw, it just warms the heart, doesn’t it?”_

 

_“Well, Jim, Nothing quite warms my heart since Helen left me, but it certainly is nice to see.”_

 

Tony’s hands are cupped around his mouth as he joins the audience’s chorus of “Thunder! Thunder! Thunder!” He has to imagine how intimidating it is for Herrin against this deafening wall of sound.

 

“Strike!”

 

Apparently, the PCL pitcher knows how to keep his cool under pressure. An uproar of disappointment rises up from the stadium as Thor swings the bat but makes no contact. Undeterred, the stomping slowly starts up again, no rhythm to it as soles of shoes slap against the concrete floors.

 

“Strike two!”

 

Tony groans, hands going up to clutch the top of his head. _“Come on, Thor!”_ He shouts, the sound mingled with Steve’s _“Keep your focus!”_. They’re barely contained in the dugout, Tony having climbed up onto the ledge because standing on the tips of his toes just wasn’t enough, Steve’s upper body hanging out of it. Both their breaths catch on the wind-up, the naked eye not quite quick enough to track the tiny blur of white as Herrin fires his third pitch towards Thor.

 

**_CRACK!_ **

 

The cheers are as deafening as Thor’s bat finally connects with the ball, sending it to the far corner of the stadium. He takes off around the bases, each stride propelling him forward with impossible power. The ball hits the top of wall, just out of the left fielder’s range, ricocheting off the padded foam and heading back to the infield. The fielder has to make a slight scramble, but manages to fire the ball straight to third base with no hesitation. The fumbling cost him though, Thor touching down on the base just before the ball connects with the third-baseman’s glove.

 

Tony and Steve jump up and down in the dugout, getting caught in the fray of excitement of the rest of their players. A very strong start indeed, leaving Tony only _minutely_ jealous that he won’t get the opportunity to bat this game.

 

Unfortunately, the strong start doesn’t quite carry them to the place they want to be. The game proceeds with each team only scoring one run for the first two innings. The game has barely begun, and the fact that things are uneventfully even to start leaves the direction the game will soon take up in the air. Tony analyzes the line ups going into the third inning carefully, a handful of substitutions having already been made. Thor is still on the batting order, but doesn’t hold any defensive position, and Tony and Steve are still waiting for their chances at pitcher and third base, respectively.

 

Tony has to watch with restless despair as the game slips further and further into dangerous territory for the International team. The innings tick on, the IL continuing to sit at only two runs scored while the PCL steadily gains on them. Bender is doing the best he can, but the Pacifics continue to rack up points while his own team comes to a standstill. As the home team’s score climbs higher and higher, Tony quickly changes tactics from offhandedly suggesting to outright begging Rezzo to put him in. _Wait, Stark_ , he says. _Patience, Stark_ , he says. _Not yet, Stark,_ he says.

 

Suddenly the scoreboard reads 3-7, and it’s not even the bottom of the sixth yet. Tony almost can’t bear to watch as Bender’s morale dips lower and lower, his performance following suit. Steve hasn’t gone in yet either, and Tony is practically pulling his hair out while his Captain attempts to keep him in check with a calming hand on his shoulder.

 

“We’re going to be okay, Tony. We all knew coming in that the PCL’s defensive line-up is statistically stronger than ours. Rezzo was expecting this, you have to have faith in him,” he tries to reason, his hand moving to rub comfortingly against the back of Tony’s neck, holding him there.

 

Tony jumps off the bench when Steve’s thumb brushing against the top of his spine makes all the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up, ignoring the shock that went through him from the touch. He’s too keyed up right now to pay any mind to a touch that’s meant to be soothing that only puts him further on edge. “I’m not putting faith in _shit_ , Steve. This is fucking bullshit! We’re getting slaughtered out there! What the _fuck_ is Rezzo waiting for?!”

 

His point is further accented when another one of the PCL’s players streaks across home plate, brining the score up to 3-8. Many of the heads in their dugout hang in disappointment, but Tony seems to be the only one actively furious over how this game is turning out. Maybe the more seasoned players consider it as “just the All-Star Game” and have no concerns beyond that. It doesn’t hold any real bearing on their individual team’s performance, but this is so much more than some light-hearted, mid-season romp where rival teams within leagues come together as a singular entity.

 

This is Tony’s old league. His old teammates and rivals. His old coach and mentor, for fuck’s sake. He left all of that behind to take a chance and prove that he could be so much more without any of them. This is supposed to be his redemption, his chance to finally rid himself of the chip on his shoulder that he’s been carrying his entire baseball career.

 

 _“This could be it! This could be the out that the International team so desperately needs and—_ ** _NO!_ ** _Dickson drops the ball and—_ ** _No way!_ ** _Kanes is going for it!! He’s running for home!”_

 

 _“And he makes it! Holy Moses, folks, Allen Kanes scores the PCL’s_ **_fourth_ ** _run this inning, bringing their total up to_ **_nine_ ** _thus far! Unbelievable!!!”_

 

_“A reminder to those listening that Kanes is only seventeen years old, one of the youngest players to make his debut on the Malibu Irons’, beaten only by former Irons’ member Tony Stark— Who speaking of, has yet to see any game play so far.”_

 

_“The PCL still has a player on third, itching to bring their score into the double-digits. As LeRoy steps up to bat, can he assist in making it happen?”_

 

 _“No he can’t!!! Just when the IL needed it most, first baseman T’Challa Ukatana steps up and catches the third and final out they needed to bring this absolutely_ **_brutal_ ** _inning to an end.”_

 

The International League has lost their gusto by the seventh inning, only able to get players on first and second before their third out is called, leaving their score unmoved at a whopping _three_. Tony’s impatience has risen to a feverish degree when Rezzo finally, _finally_ turns to him and gives him the nonverbal command, making eye contact and jerking his bearded chin towards the field. Tony passively accepts the pats from his teammates as she shoves past to exit the dugout, ignoring the favors of “Good luck, Stark”s that pour from their compliant mouths.

 

“Bring me a miracle, Stark!” Rezzo calls out to him.

 

 _I’ll do you one better_ , Tony thinks.

 

_“Oh my, Jimbo, I think you might just be a psychic. As we enter the top of the seventh, we’re finally witnessing a moment that many of you have all been waiting for: Tony Stark takes to the pitcher’s mound!”_

 

_“To the surprise of many fans out there, Stark didn’t make it to the All-Star Game last year, despite the huge rally in his favor. Rumors flew about him being banned from playing in this game due to his televised outburst against the PCL’s Coach Whitaker two years ago. Whereas many people were overjoyed to see he’d be back this year, now playing for the opposite side, there was talk of fan-run petitions wanting to recall the vote that put him up.”_

 

 _“With the PCL holding a lead of_ **_six_ ** _runs scored, Rezzo needs this kid to do the impossible for him and bring it back around.”_

 

_“All opinions aside, whether you love him or hate him— if anyone can do it, it’s Tony Stark.”_

 

Three frames left. Tony takes a deep breath. The odds are stacked against him, but this isn’t a dice roll at a Craps table. He’s got three innings and absolutely zero control over what their offensive line-up can accomplish, but if there’s one thing he does have authority over, it’s making sure the Pacific League doesn’t score a _single_ run for the rest of the game.

 

The first batter takes his place. Tony’s lucky, because it’s Longoria, his old teammate who he’s seen at bat hundreds of times in hundreds of situations. He hardly needs to think about it, the process almost happening automatically as he works out the perfect pitching pattern in his brain.

 

Screwball.

 

“Strike one!”

 

Splitter.

 

“Strike two!”

 

And a Circle Changeup to round out his trifecta.

 

“Strike three! Out!”

 

Longoria doesn’t know what hit him, Tony can see it in his face as he drops his bat and walks off the field, tossing his cap to the ground once he reaches the dugout like a frustrated child. Tony can’t help but laugh, throwing his head back in exuberance. It feels good to finally be where he should’ve been for the past two innings, but he isn’t going to let what can’t be changed distract him from his goal.

 

As soon as the PCL’s lineup was released to the public, Tony had done his homework, arguably, one of his strongest skills. He’s already placed in a position of advantage, most of the players he’s competed against before. He knows their patterns, their style. His hyper-eidetic muscle memory keeps a neat little catalogue of every single player he’s ever thrown a pitch to. For all the newcomers to the league he hadn’t had the opportunity to play against during his time on the Irons, he recorded as many games as he could and watched the tapes back countless times to try and decipher trends from the grainy footage. Even if there are a few players he doesn’t know the exact behaviors of, Tony can always forgo the personalized fate-sealers and just throw an old fashioned, faultless pitch that’s sure to trip up any player.

 

Next up is Pendleton Mathers. _Grizzlies center fielder, left-handed, high ISO, but a slow reaction time and poor judgement when it comes to changeups,_ Tony’s brain supplies. Stellar Isolated Power stat aside, he can’t hit what he can’t see coming.

 

Four-Seam Fastball: straight as an arrow, Palmball: a slower changeup, but thrown with the same arm motion as a fastball, Sinker: a quick pitch that would run in on a right-handed hitter, but curves down and away from a left-handie.

 

“Out two!”

 

Vegas’ own Linden Jacobs is Tony’s third and final victim of the bottom of the Seventh. Jacobs is one of the new players Tony would realistically have reservations for, but he knows he’s a good hitter who tends to hesitate on balls that he thinks will earn him a walk. That’s more than enough info he needs.

 

He doesn’t swing for the Forkball or Slurve, both meeting the catcher's mitt in the strike zone, both counting, as fair pitches, both strikes against Jacobs. Desperate to get a hit in, Tony knows he’ll swing no matter what gets thrown now. He misses the Splitter by a mile, bat whiffing through the air and effectively putting the last nail in the coffin for the seventh inning.

 

 _“_ **_Un-be-lie-va-ble!_ ** _Stark is not messing around!”_

 

 _“The crowd can’t even believe it! I’m not even sure_ **_I_ ** _can believe it! Can_ **_you_ ** _believe it, Jim?!”_

 

_“I did just say unbelievable—”_

 

_“Not a single moment of contact between ball and bat! Stark is here to prove, once again, he can give a damn-near flawless performance and has unmeasurable grace under pressure.”_

 

_“He’s going to need it. Until then, I think everyone needs a moment to recover from what we just witnessed as we go into the seventh inning stretch.”_

 

Rezzo grabs him by the top of his head, giving him a fatherly shake. “I knew you could do it, kid. Well done, well done, absolutely phenomenal. Alright guys, bunch up, bunch up.” He keeps an arm around Tony’s shoulders as they all gather in the dugout for the extended break between innings, some kind of raffle taking place to entertain the audience during it.

 

Tony glows under the praise from their teammates, nothing quite giving him the same thrill as Steve’s almost imperceptible shake of his head paired with a muttered, “ _So damn theatrical_.” Tony’s grinning and elbows him in the side, earning a playful poke to his own ribs as he comes to stand next to him in the huddle.

 

“Okay guys, thanks to Stark we were able to keep the last inning at a standstill. Now I don’t want to see a single one of you go out there without giving it your all. _More_ than your all. I know this team has at least seven runs in them-- I mean, you guys have to be stockpiling waiting for the end right? That’s why you haven’t scored shit the entire time?” Chuckles ripple through the group. “The dedication to dramatic timing you all have is impeccable, truly, I respect it. As much as I love a last-second twist, let's leave that to the Soap writers and just win this damn thing.”

 

The team cheers their concurrence, spirits all lifted thanks to Tony. Maybe they do stand a chance. Putting Tony on the field is a power move in and of itself, and after an inning of three strikes in a row, not a single player even clipping the ball, that could be enough of a confidence shaker to throw the Pacific Coast off their game.

 

To soon, it’s time to go back out, and Tony is already itching for his turn to pitch again. Thankfully, Rezzo now takes advantage of his last Avenger, subbing Steve in. Tony can’t let himself be contained in the dugout now, the rules be damned. He waits at the edge of the doorway, entire body thrumming with anticipation.

 

Energy renewed, the International League starts playing like an entirely new team. The PCL hasn’t given up quite yet, but they’ve gotten careless with their lead. Their pitcher gives away a walk to start, and from there, it’s just a matter of a couple more IL players hitting premeditated singles, the need to just get players _on base_ more important than trying to greedily go for more than that.

 

_“With two outs against them, the International League has managed to load their bases. And for the first time this afternoon, we now see Steve Rogers stepping up to the plate. I gotta say, Rogers has always been one to look out for, but ever since he’s dropped down to the Triple-A, I don’t know if players see him as much of a threat as they once did.”_

 

_“Well, his play time has been pretty inconsistent the past few years due to a sustained injury, but that’s no reason to write him off just yet. This well-seasoned veteran still has some fight in him, you can see it in his eyes!”_

 

_“Okay, first pitch and— Ohhh, a foul ball. You can tell that one cut Andrews on third real deep.”_

 

_“No skin off Rogers’ nose, let’s see if he can hit the next one. We know he’s at least capable of a single, which should get one of his players home— Oh no! Swing and a miss for Rogers, that’s a damn shame to see.”_

 

_“Can he make it up, though? Oh no, another foul! Looks like all this hard work might not get the payoff the IL needs.”_

 

_“Well, it just goes to show that try as you might to make things work, when one side has decided it’s over, there’s nothing you can do to bring it back.”_

 

_“Erm, you talking about your divorce again, Eddie?”_

 

_“I just miss her, Jim.”_

 

“Come on, Steve,” Tony mutters into his hands, fingers locked tightly over his mouth. “You got this. You got this.”

 

“Strike two!”

 

Tony wants to bang his head against the wall. “Quit fucking around, Steve!” He finally yells aloud, projecting loud enough so he’s sure his Captain can hear him. “And you say _I’m_ the theatrical one!”

 

If he was less attentive, Tony might’ve missed the small flash of a smile he sees flit across Steve’s face right before he readies up for his next swing. The pitcher fires a ball at him, a two-seamed pitch. Tony’s eyes widen in disbelief, knowing exactly what a pitch at that velocity and trajectory will mean for a power hitter like Steve.

 

And what a huge fucking mistake that pitcher just made.

 

_“NO—”_

 

_“OH MY GOD—”_

 

_“R-ROGERS JUST—”_

 

_“WHAT—”_

 

_“—HIT A GRAND SLAM!”_

 

_“A-A-A GRAND SLAM!”_

 

_“OUT OF THE PARK!”_

 

_“BASES LOADED!”_

 

_“CAN YOU—”_

 

_“—I CAN’T!”_

 

_“HISTORY IS BEING MADE—”_

 

_“—THE CROWD IS GOING NUTS!”_

 

They haven’t even won yet— haven’t even tied— but that doesn’t stop the entire International team from surging out of the dugout to join in a celebratory pile-up on home plate as if they had. Steve had just knocked a ball all the way into the stands, bringing the score up to 7-9.

 

They don’t get another run after Steve’s grand slam, but that hardly matters. Tony’s not going to let a single run past him until the end, meaning they only need three runs on the next inning, and then they win. What may have seemed impossible mere moments ago is now in reach. Any kind of passive nature either team had in regards to who walked away as a winner or loser for this game is gone. With such an exciting upset, both teams are hungry for victory, and the time is running out.

 

Tony continues to pitch ruthlessly. His old league doesn’t stand a chance against him, after two outs, only getting a single player to second base before the next batter bunts it directly to Tony, who easily scoops it up and fires it back to Steve in the blink of an eye. This third out brings them back to the top of the next, final inning.

 

The Ninth feels like it stretches on forever. Maybe that’s just how Tony feels since he’s not in the batting lineup. It’s agonizing as calls are contested, plays get reviewed and then re-reviewed again, last-minute substitutes are running on and off the field, Obie and Rezzo both critical of each other’s lineup cards, arguing with the Umpires. It goes back and forth. The IL scores a run, but the next player hits a pop fly that’s easily caught by the PCL’s defense. One of their players gets tagged out while running home, a blow that’s quickly soothed by their second run scored, brining the game to a tie.

 

The tension is so high that Tony finds out later about a dozen spectators needed to be checked out by medics from the stress of watching it all unfold. He and Thor are grabbing onto each other’s jerseys as what could very well be their last batter steps up. He hits his first pitch impeccably, and their base runner on second makes the snap decision to run for home. Everyone is on the edge of their seats as the game plays out, Tony about ready to burst out of his skin. Not only are they about to win this entire All-Star Game, but Tony is going to get the added satisfaction of the fact that the PCL only used two of it’s three pitchers, leaving Hammer without a single second of playtime. It’s poetic justice, really.

 

Chen is a blur as he breaks for home, dirt kicked up behind him as he races against the ball fired from the shortstop’s hand. It’s close, impossibly close, but from where the team is standing, it’s clear that Chen makes it a nanosecond before the catcher receives the ball.

 

Celebration rings out in the stadium, and Tony is suddenly airborne as Thor lifts him up, swinging him around in victory. The revelry is short-lived as multiple whistles start being blown, the refs, umpire, and both coaches all suddenly rushing together towards home plate. The cheering of the crowd starts to turn into disconcerted shouts as they wait for an official ruling. Thor doesn’t set Tony down as they wait, massive arms still locked around him, letting his feet dangle a foot or two above the ground. Tony’s too focused to care, doubt beginning to creep into his mind the longer they wait.

 

Another century seems to pass before the referee steps forward and rules Chen as out. Cries of outrage fill the stadium, the booing overpowering at the prospect of a tie after all that, everything they’d gone through in the past few hours. Rezzo strides back to the team, anger clearly written across his face, but there’s still a passionate fire in his eyes.

 

The All-Star Game is allowed to have an overtime inning, but it never goes longer than ten innings total. They have one inning, one shot to win this, or else they are going to walk away with a tie, which might just cause riots in the street at this point.

 

They’ve gone through the entire line-up, no subs left. They’re almost back to the top of the batting order, and it looks like Steve will get one more chance at bat. Tony racks his brain for their best possible chance. He knows he won’t let the other team get a single run, so they just need to get one point and they’ve won. He glances back to the field, doing a double take when he realizes who’s now taken to the mound.

 

He grabs Rezzo by the sleeve, interrupting him halfway through his pep talk to the batters on deck. “Coach, take out the DH.”

 

Rezzo stares at him as if he’s just grown a third head. “What? Are you insane?”

 

“Drop the DH so I can fill in for the batting order,” Tony repeats, pointing to the field. “Look. They just put Hammer in for the OT inning. I know exactly how that fucker pitches and I know for a fact he’ll crumble as soon as he realizes I’m coming. Trust me, okay? I swear I won’t let the team down. I _know_ we can win this now.”

 

The man locks eyes with him, jaw set in a hard line before he nods. “I’m trusting you, kid.” He taps the lid of his cap before quickly jogging over to the umpire to make the last-minute change.

 

Once he’s gone, Tony turns to Steve and the other two players ahead of him on the batting order. “Okay guys, ignore whatever Rezzo just told you and listen to me. Waynes, Nancy, I need at least one of you to get on base. Most likely, one of you will get an out, but that’s okay as long as it’s not both of you. Hammer’s show-boaty, and he loves to throw a pitch he knows will go foul to try and psych a batter out. There’s a reason Stane saved him until the end for this exact situation. You guys need to be careful when you do and don’t swing, but Steve—” He turns his full attention on his Captain now, his blue eyes alight with attentive energy as he listens to every word Tony has to say to him. “As long as we don’t have two outs, don’t swing.”

 

For a brief moment, there’s a flicker of doubt. “Don’t swing?”

 

“Did I stutter, Cap? Jeez, I said don’t swing,” Tony grabs him by the shoulder. “Trust me, okay? Hammer doesn’t want to risk you getting a triple or even another home-run, which we both know you can pull off at this point. His pitches are gonna be wild, and you’re not going to swing at a single one, understand?” He doesn’t let Steve’s gaze go, needing him, begging him to follow his direction despite his better judgement.

 

“Who died and made you Captain?” Tony hears Nancy mutter under his breath, the Atlanta-based player crossing his arms.

 

“Me,” Steve answers immediately, taking Tony by surprise. He straightens up out of the huddle. “Listen to Stark, he knows what he’s talking about here. We can do this guys.”

 

Rezzo returns to them, giving Tony the thumbs up. “You’re in, kid. Do _not_ make me regret this.”

 

Tony grins at him as the whistle is blown and Waynes steps up to bat. “I won’t, sir. Thanks for trusting me.”

 

Hammer pitches exactly as expected, breakaways and changeups rather than any kind of fastball pitch that he doesn’t have the skill or confidence for. Waynes plays smart and earns himself a double, but gets tagged out after Nancy hits a ground ball right within the shortstop’s reach.

 

Now, it’s Steve’s turn. He meets Tony’s eyes with one last eyebrow raise. _Are you sure?_

 

Tony nods. _Positive._

 

Hammer throws the first pitch, a slider that Steve doesn’t even flinch for.

 

“Strike one!”

 

“What is Rogers doing?!” He hears Rezzo grumble angrily from a few feet behind him.

 

Steve throws another glance over his shoulder, his jaw hard set. It’s a fair pitch, but Tony stands by his point. “Trust me,” he mouths to Steve. If he slips up now because of a little sweat on his brow, then he’s not nearly the player Tony thinks he is.

 

Next is a curveball that dips far outside the strike zone by the time it reaches Steve.

 

“Ball!”

 

Hammer does it again, a second curveball that is slower than the first, but still dips out of reach.

 

“Ball two!”

 

The circle changeup wildly hooks around and Steve has to jump back to avoid it colliding with his hip.

 

“Ball three!”

 

Hammer’s slider is sloppy at best, but Tony realizes Steve probably could’ve swung for it and at least gotten a double, but he’s glad the man holds off, maintaining his credence in Tony’s advice.

 

“Strike two!”

 

His last pitch is a Sinker, a feeble ploy to try and convince Steve he could swing on it. The Captain’s position remains true, the ball coming down and too close to his thigh to be even close to a fair pitch.

 

“Ball four! Walk!”

 

“Yes!” Tony pumps his fist as Steve jogs to first which allows Nancy to advance to second. He can see Hammer’s ugly tomato-colored face from here, his beady eyes meeting Tony’s as he strides forward, spinning his bat in quick circles over his wrist. Tony flashes a shit-eating grin, winking at the man who knows he’s getting beat at his own game.

 

Nancy’s greed almost costs them the game, throwing a wrench into Tony’s plans. He refrains from swinging at Hammer’s first wild pitch, but Nancy takes the opportunity to steal for third. The catcher fires the ball to the third baseman who makes contact with the base right before Nancy can slide in.

 

“Out two!”

 

Tony swears under his breath, dipping his head low so the brim of his cap covers his expression. He can’t let one player’s carelessness get in the way of the goal at hand, but he sure made this harder. The defensive lineup he’s up against is ridiculously strong, a well-oiled machine who isn’t going to let Tony get away with anymore than a double. That could’ve gotten Nancy all the way home if he played his cards right, but now Tony is up against a behemoth of a defense team with only Steve on first and two outs against him.

 

Their fielders aren’t going to make any technical mistakes at a crucial moment like this, so Tony is going to have to play smart. He switches sides of the plate he stands on, knocking some red dirt off his cleats before assuming position again, now batting left-handed. He glares down the line at Hammer with a revived determination burning inside of him, rapidly working out the exact path his swing will need to take, the perfect moment to connect with the ball, the precise spot he needs the ball to land in--

 

_Crack!_

 

Tony isn’t usually a power hitter, and Obie knows his play style— _knew_ his play style. On paper, it makes sense to push the outfielders forward, not expecting Tony to hit it all the way to the back right corner of the field. But he does, and it’s all thanks to Hammer and his shitty pitching.

 

Tony knows he put the right fielder in a tough position, the man needing to make the snap decision as to whether or not this was going to be a double or a triple, and if he could get Tony out at second or third base. Tony bounds past the second base, waving for Steve to run like hell for home. As fast as he is, Tony knows he can’t make it to third before the ball does. Right in front of the shortstop ready to receive, he quickly skids to a stop, hand touching down in the dirt as he changes direction on a dime and bolts back to second base. It’s a race against him and the SS’s reaction time, the man realizing too late that Tony isn’t making a break for third after all. He fires the ball to his second baseman, but Tony makes contact with both feet before he gets crushed under the baseman in his attempt to get there first. The ref by second signals Tony is safe almost simultaneously with the one at home plate raising a hand to announce Steve’s scored run.

 

Tony lets his head hit the ground with relief. The game still has half of an inning left, but he knows they’ve won. Somewhere distant, he hears the second baseman apologize and clamber off of him, holding out a hand to help him up. He ignores it for a few moments, basking in his own revelry of his genius before he eventually rolls onto his back and lets his opponent help him up. He scoops his hat off the ground and tosses it like a frisbee into the crowd for some lucky fans to fight over.

 

Tony doesn’t even move from his spot on second when the IL’s next batter sends the ball directly to the left fielder who catches it in a dive. The whistle is blown, the two leagues swap positions, and now it’s time for Tony to end this.

 

It’s not quite a shutout, seeing as Tony only pitched four innings rather than the entire game, and the opposing team scored plenty leading up to him coming in as relief… but it’ll do. Tony only throws pitches he knows can either strike the player out, or that are impossible to turn into a ground ball which gives his fielders the opportunity to catch an out. No one on the PCL even gets the opportunity to make it on base, and the whistle is blown with the final scorecard reading 10-9.

 

The All-Star Games aren’t usually such high-point matches, but the 1991 showdown between the International and Pacific Coast Leagues will be one to remember for the rest of baseball history. There’s a short break for celebration and mourning for both teams, everyone shaking hands (Tony keeps his promise to himself and ignores Hammer during these exchanges) as they wait for the MVP awards to be announced.

 

Each team lines up in small groups on either side of the pitcher’s mound as a few integral members of the MiLB board come out with a microphone to congratulate both leagues on a spectacular game, Tony zoning out during the yaddah yaddah. Yes, yes, the well-spirited battle between respected players was reward enough, but Tony wanted to fast forward to the good part. _His_ award.

 

The losing team’s MVP is announced first and goes to Kaminzky for earning or contributing to the most outs for the PCL as well as playing the entire game. Everyone applauds, the Polish baseman accepting the award happily and joining the rest of his team in a group huddle.

 

Rezzo comes to stand next to Tony, placing a hand on his shoulder with a warm smile. “You earned this kid,” he whispers to him, despite the MVP award for their team not being announced yet. As if anyone who watched the game expects the honor to be be bestowed upon anyone else.

 

Thor is the culprit yet again when Tony is hoisted into the air, now being lifted by many strong hands all around him until he finds a seat on Steve’s shoulders. He kisses the award and holds it out to the crowd, pointing as he’s spun around in slow circles. A few of the players chase Rezzo down with the water hose before it gets turned on Tony, soaking him and Steve both. He has half a mind to strip off the wet uniform and take a victory lap around the field in his underwear, but he decides to save Janet the aneurism just this once.

 

The celebration continues back at their hotel, a huge feast laid out for both teams and family and friends alike to take part in. There’s an open bar in the massive ballroom which Tony is more than pleased about, every person he comes across demanding he have a drink of this or take a shot of that. Even his tolerance is no match for a group of drunk, burly jocks basking in the glory of their hard-earned victory. As the drink continues to flow, the lines of rivalry between the teams are completely erased, players from both leagues sharing in the celebration of an incredible match.

 

Tony is standing within a large group made up of old rivals from the PCL, new rivals from the IL he played alongside today, and members of his own team as he regales stories about some of his first games playing for the Avengers. Steve and the others regularly interject, arguing good-heartedly with him about their versions of the story. Tony is doing his best impression of what he liked to call Steve’s Don’t-Steal-That-Base face when he’s suddenly tackled from behind, arms wrapping around him in a hug.

 

The room takes a moment to stop spinning as he twists around to view his friendly assailant, his face immediately lighting up. “Pep!” He cries out, drunkenly grabbing her by the face and laying kisses across both cheeks at least a dozen times. “Oh my god, you made it. I’m so happy to see you,” he gushes.

 

She laughs and gently pries Tony off of her, settling herself against his side with an arm around his waist to best avoid his flailing arms. “I’m happy to see you too. You were amazing out there today.”

 

“ _You_ were amazing out there today,” Tony counters. “Today. Every day. All the days. Isn’t she amazing guys!?” Tony grabs her chin, looking to the rest of the group for affirmation. Everyone is mostly just laughing at his antics, while Natasha tries to save Pepper from Tony’s grasps. He clings to her protectively, his coach eventually giving up.

 

“Alright, no more alcohol for you. Someone get this brat some water!” Natasha calls out, leaving her arm around Tony’s neck in a loose headlock.

 

“Oh, be gentle with him, Nat!” Clint cackles at Tony’s exaggerated choking sounds. “Stark, blink twice if you need me to come rescue you.”

 

“There are far worse things in life than being sandwiched between two beautiful redheads,” Tony replies before a loud interruption comes from somewhere behind him.

 

“Well if it isn’t Mr. MVP! Aren’t you popular tonight?”

 

“Speaking of worse things in life,” Tony sighs, turning to see people making space for Hammer as he stumbles into their circle. “Hey, Justin. That whole half inning of game time wear you out or what?”

 

Stifled laughter ripples through the group, Hammer fake laughing to try and convince himself people are laughing _with_ him and not _at_ him. It’s sad, really. “Hilarious, Stark, really, so funny. Always something to say— I don’t know how your new team puts up with you.”

 

“Yeah, well I certainly don’t make it easy on them now do I?” Tony responds easily, unwilling to give Hammer any sort of satisfaction. At this point, the rest of the group seems to be humoring him as well.

 

“Eh, he grows on you,” Natasha ruffles his hair.

 

“Like a fungus,” Quill adds good-naturedly.

 

“How sweet,” Hammer drawls. “Honestly, it’s touching that all of you have welcomed him so warmly considering his… _proclivities_ ,” he pulls a face, comically pulling at his collar.

 

Tony actually straightens up a bit, feeling the light-hearted mood of the small crowd shift slightly at the implication, unsure if it’s just a joke in poor taste or that he’s not making a joke at all. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but then again, everything that comes out of your mouth is a crock of horseshit anyway, so I really shouldn’t be surprised.”

 

Hammer holds up his hands. “Whoa, there! No need for the hostility, buddy! I’m just making a statement. We were all sharing some stories about our dear friend Tony, weren’t we?” He stares around the group with wide eyes, now holding his hands innocently over his heart. “I just wanna express how happy I am that your new teammates don’t judge you for being a faggot.”

 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Tony asks, simultaneous with Pepper’s stern, “That’s enough, Justin.”

 

Tony breaks out of the holds of the two women, stepping forward. He feels Natasha grab at the back of his suit jacket to stop him, Hammer also jumping back by a step. He doesn’t look scared of Tony at all, smarmy grin still on his face. “Hey, hey, hey, I’m being sincere! It’s _nothing_ to be ashamed of—”

 

Steve’s hand comes down on Hammer’s shoulder. “Son, just don’t,” he warns condescendingly. “I’m going to suggest that you’ve had too much to drink and need to excuse yourself before you say something you really regret.”

 

The crowd shifts uncomfortably around them. While it’s clear most of them are already put off by Hammer’s blatant displays of his inferiority complex, many of the players are now turning uncertain stares towards Tony as well. Those kinds of accusations aren’t taken lightly in the current climate, even when coming from a raving asshole that can hardly stand.

 

“Aw, your boyfriend defending you now, Stark? That’s cute,” Hammer sneers, pushing Steve’s hand off of him. “I remember what it was like sharing a locker room with him, _constantly_ catching him eyeing me up in the showers,” He shudders dramatically. “But no one can fault you— Even a wholesome, devout Catholic man like yourself must’ve found it impossible to resist a pretty little fairy like that constantly coming at you, _begging_ to get fucked—”

 

No one is able to react quickly enough to stop Tony from lunging forward to shut Hammer up. He may have been able to accept the prick’s insults earlier in the week, but he’s had enough to drink by this point that any concerns for repercussions were out the window.

 

His fist connects soundly against the center of Hammer’s face. He _feels_ the nose bone crack beneath his knuckles, watching as his head snaps to the side from the impact. The fountain of blood that spurts from his face would rival the Aria’s. Everything happens too quickly then, Tony feeling arms lock around his middle from behind at the same time that another body collides into him in an attempt to tackle him to the ground. Hammer flies towards him, Tony feeling nails scrape across his cheek before more bodies are cutting into the fight.

 

What starts as an attempt to build a human barricade to keep the two away from each other soon descends into chaos when there are a few too many limbs attached to a few too many inebriated bodies involved. Natasha and Rhodey are combining efforts to try and drag Tony away from the brawl, Clint and Quill are caught in a scrap with Irons players who came to Hammer’s defense, and even the third-party players who are attempting to diffuse the situation start to accidentally tousle with one another in the confusion. Drinks are flying and it’s near impossible to tell whether or not it’s accidental.

 

Boys from the International League with no stake in the fight manage to separate The Avengers from the fray, Hammer’s teammates doing the same to get Hammer out of reach when they realize they’re outnumbered. “How long did it take—” Hammer screams at Tony’s teammates, arms locked behind him as his cronies struggle to hold his wriggling body back. He’s bleeding heavily from the nose, Tony watching the red spray from his lips with satisfaction. “—For him to drop to his knees and blow every last one of you?!”

 

“You’re an _insufferable fucking douchebag_ ,” Tony hisses back, leaning forward as much as he can with Rhodey doing his best to block him with his entire body. He leans around the man’s shoulder and spits at Hammer’s face. “I don’t need the satisfaction of beating your intolerant ass right now because beating you in the championship will be so much better!”

 

“ _I_ _’d like to see you and your fag-loving team try, you little—_ ” Steve’s elbow suddenly comes out of nowhere, catching the pitcher right in the jaw. Hammer drops like a stone, his teammates so surprised that they let his dead weight slip right out of their hold.

 

“Stay down,” He advises Hammer’s unconscious body before stepping over it to join the rest of the Avengers in ushering a belligerent Tony away from the scene.

 

* * *

 

“Ow— _Christ_ , Pepper!” Tony hisses, flinching away from the peroxide soaked cotton ball again.

 

“Stop being a baby and just sit still,” she chastises in annoyance, gently grabbing the uninjured side of his face again to angle him back towards her. “It’s almost clean, then we can bandage it.”

 

The entirety of their teammates in attendance of the game as well as Natasha, Janet, and Pepper are all piled into Steve and Tony’s room, helping one another nurse any sustained injuries after taking some time to sober up. Tony had made it out of the scuffle relatively unscathed other than Hammer managing to swipe his nails across the cheek to leave some scratch marks that were deep enough to bleed. Clint may have gotten the worse out of all of them, Natasha helping him pick small shards of glass out of his forearm from where he had blocked someone’s glass from being smashed into his head.

 

“I’ll kill that bastard for fucking up my face,” Tony grumbles in annoyance, flinching again as Pepper layers Neosporin gently over the scratch marks.

 

“You did fuck his face up first,” Rhodey points out as he walks over from the kitchen with ice bags for Quill’s developing black eye and Scott’s bruised jaw.

 

“Yeah, but _I’m_ handsome. My mug is my moneymaker, whereas Hammer’s rat face could use some rearranging. Honestly, he should _thank_ me,” Tony sniffs.

 

“These are hardly even going to scar, you’ll be fine,” Pepper reprimands, laying the bandage across the length of his cheek, making sure the adhesive is secure. “Now I’ve got to get back downstairs and deal with the shitstorm that’s waiting for me. I probably won’t get the chance to see you again before tomorrow so… behave, okay?” she hugs him tightly, turning her face to whisper quietly in his ear, making sure no one else can pick up on it. “You know the drill. Don’t address any questions about it and it will all blow over, sweetie.”

 

Tony avoids her gaze and nods, accepting a kiss on his unscathed cheek. The door suddenly flies open right as Pepper touches the handle, a fuming Van Dyne's storming into the room, blowing right past her. Pepper just raises her eyebrows at Tony and draws a line across her neck, sticking her tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes and raises a fake finger gun to his head to blow his own brains out, getting a laugh out of his ex-manager before she slips out of the room and leaves him to his doom.

 

“A fight?! With _Justin Hammer_ of all people?!” Janet’s yelling as soon as the door swings shut. “I swear it’s like you _try_ to get yourself wrapped up in these scandals on purpose!”

 

“It’s not my fault!” He denies vehemently. “I wasn’t just going to sit there and let Hammer spew all that shit about me! He harassed me all weekend and he got what he deserved.”

 

“He’s going to press _assault charges_ , Tony!” She shrieks at him.

 

“Let him do it!” Tony argues jumping to his feet. “I’ve got the best lawyers in the country in my back pocket who will happily drag his ass to court.”

 

Janet’s hand flies up to massage her temple, squeezing her eyes shut. “It’s not about that, Tony. We’ve been working so hard to clean up your image and now you go and do this. It’s not going to matter whatever Hammer said to you because _you_ threw the first punch. Jesus, there were media outlets at the party and now I’m going to have to try and pay off any photographers that might’ve caught that whole debacle on tape.”

 

“Go easy on him, Jan,” Natasha drawls, finally exiting the bathroom with Clint’s arm patched up. “Aside from Hammer, our guys came out of that scrap way worse. Everyone was drinking, and I’m sure we can talk to all the eyewitnesses who got involved and they’ll happily back up that Tony didn’t attack first. Not to mention Stane won’t waste time pressing charges against _anyone,_ let alone Tony. I’ll call him up right now and we can get everything sorted out.”

 

The fury doesn’t leave Janet’s eyes, but it’s also two in the morning, a time when someone can only muster so much anger before needing to deflate. She glares at all the players around the room, assessing the damage. She points at the door, arm in a stiff, straight line. “Everyone back to their rooms. Need I remind you that most of you have a flight back to New York in a few hours? Get some sleep. I’ll yell at you properly once we’re all back on the East Coast.”

 

Everyone dutifully files out of the room, not even bothering to bid Tony and Steve a goodnight lest they incur their manager’s wrath. “And you two get some rest as well. I’m going to try and pull both of you out of tomorrow’s press conference, but be prepared anyway.” Janet fixes one last glare on Tony that clearly says ‘ _We will reopen this discussion’_ before she and Natasha leave the room together, the door clicking shut quietly behind them.

 

It’s deadly silent in the hotel room, Tony glancing over at where Steve is standing in the corner. He hasn’t moved from that spot since they got back, stoically leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, brow furrowed, and eyes glued to the floor, hardly engaging verbally with the group as they had all licked their wounds. Tony turns and walks back into their bedroom, slowly undressing and slipping under the covers. He hears the light in the other half of the suite click off, plunging them into darkness save for some ambient light outside. Tony’s facing the wall, staring into the blackness as he listens to Steve’s footsteps cross to his side of the room, the shifting of clothing, and then Steve pulling back his duvet and getting into bed himself. They settle into the kind of quiet that remains present in a room where both parties are clearly still awake, something unsaid hanging in the air.

 

Tony is the first to break it, rolling onto his other side. “Steve?” He rasps into the darkness.

 

“Yeah?” Steve’s voice sounds loud and clear. He must be facing Tony as well.

 

Tony licks his lips. “About all that stuff Hammer said… I-I just wanted you to know none of it’s true. I shouldn’t even have to defend myself but it was just a bunch of bullshit Hammer was making up to try and get under my skin— I mean, it worked, clearly, but I just don’t want you thinking that I’d ever—”

 

“Tony,” he interrupts calmly. “It’s fine. Just drop it.”

 

Tony’s mouth goes dry. “But—”

 

“It doesn’t matter. We don’t have to talk about it,” he says quickly. He hears some shifting— Steve rolling over. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, voice sounding muffled now.

 

“...Oh,” Tony says, hardly above a whisper. Something about the tightness in Steve’s voice feels so final, so resolute. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Don’t ask don’t tell, Tony supposes. Chest feeling heavy, he rolls back over himself, facing the wall yet again. He lets a few more minutes pass. “Steve?” He asks again.

 

“Hm?” Comes the drowsy reply from the other side of the room.

 

Tony pauses, wondering if he should just drop it and pretend he’s fallen asleep. “You decking Hammer like that was pretty badass,” he eventually blurts out.

 

He’s surprised that his attempt to alleviate the uneasy energy in the room earns him a soft chuckle, the sound soothing his worried heart rate. “Go to sleep, Tony.”

 

“Okay,” he exhales quietly, for once, listening to his Captain’s orders.

 

 

 

September, 1991 

 

“What channel is it on again?”

 

“Oh my god, for the millionth time channel eight, you dolt.”

 

“I think this thing is out of batteries, I swear I can’t change it—”

 

Steve ignores the arguing of his teammates, looking back at the elevators over his shoulder. The doors finally ding open, the last of their teammates stepping out of it. “There you guys are,” Steve chides, waving them over. “What took you guys so long?”

 

“Okay, I got it— No wait, I changed the input somehow— Okay, never mind, it’s this one.”

 

“Clint, you’re just changing the volume now.”

 

Rhodey, Bruce, and Tony approach, Tony with freshly washed hair and smelling of citrus. “It’s Tony’s fault, of course,” Rhodey scoffs, his friend immediately looking affronted. “Seriously, how is it that you somehow finessed your way into getting your own room and still take twice as long as the rest of us who are all sharing a bathroom to get showered after the game?”

 

“How have you not found it yet? There’s only, like, a dozen channels.”

 

“Shut up, I’ve got this. Just give me a second!”

 

“Fucking hell, Barton, just give me the damn remote—”

 

Tony runs a hand through his hair, slicking back the stray fringe from his forehead. “Don’t blame me for the plumbing going out at the stadium, I told you guys Rochester is a shithole. And if you had a private bathroom you’d take just as long as I did.”

 

Steve is trapped between two different arguments now, turning back to look at Clint and Strange fighting over the remote while the rest of their team goads them on, mixing in a few complaints that they were going to miss the end of the game if they didn’t hurry up.

 

Bruce strides away from Tony and Rhodey’s debate about the semantics of proper body hygiene and snatches the remote out of Strange’s outstretched hand, switching the TV back to the proper channels and turning on ESPN with a few clicks. A victorious cheer rises up from the group all piled around the single tv in the lobby, all the armchairs and couches gathered around it in a semi-circle. Tony and Rhodey sit on the edge of the coffee table, Steve deciding to perch on the arm of one of the couches.

 

The team isn’t normally this dedicated to watching some other teams’ game unfold live, usually just finding out the score later on the radio or television recaps, but this match of the Clippers versus the Bisons was very important for one specific reason.

 

After a much improved season from last year and their game earlier that afternoon won, The Avengers, for the first time in thirteen years, are in the running to play in the Minor League Champsionship Game against the finalists from the Pacific Coast League.

 

They’re neck and neck with the Columbus Clippers as far as won games and runs scored goes, the third team ranked below them already far below what was needed to keep them in the running. They still technically have two games in the regular season left, one more against the Red Wings (the same team they played today), and then a final home game against the Stripers, but both of those teams were also low on the rankings. Even if they lost their last two matches, they would have enough to carry them to the post-season.

 

As long as the Bisons win this. Their game began shortly after the Avengers’ match against Rochester, the entire team booking it back to the hotel afterwards so they can catch the tail end of the game that will be deciding their fate.

 

The game is already on the ninth inning as they tune in. Hopes are high when they see the score is low and that the Bisons are up by two by the end of the top of the inning. The Clippers have the home field advantage on them, but as long as they don’t score three or more runs before the game ends, The Avengers will have them beat.

 

All of them watch the match unfold on the edge of their seats, ignoring the dirty glares they’re getting from hotel staff and guests for making a bit of a disaster in the lobby, taking up all of the available seating and having extremely loud reactions every minute or so of play. Janet and Natasha are standing behind the group, both watching with quiet intent. There’s a lot riding on this for both of them with Natasha being the first (and currently only) female coach in the Minor League, and Janet trying to bring back the glory of a team she had been managing for so long. No matter what the outcome of this game was, Steve needs to make sure they know how much they are appreciated, and that the Avengers wouldn’t be half the team it is without them— Championship game or not.

 

Anxious groans rise up from the team when the Clippers score, bringing the score to 3-2. Victor is convinced it’s a bullshit call, but no one can confirm nor deny as they’re all having trouble seeing exactly what’s going on when they’re all crowded around the fuzzy little TV.

 

Steve’s gaze flickers away from the screen for a moment to look over at Tony, his dark eyes, as always, analyzing every little thing they can see. It makes a corner of his mouth quirk up in amusement, his eyes trailing lower to see that he and Bruce are holding hands. They aren’t doing it secretly, hands resting on Bruce’s thigh as his leg jumps up and down. Their fingers are locked together, Steve catching the movement of Tony’s thumb as he soothes it over the other man’s hand. Afraid of being caught himself, Steve quickly turns his attention back to the screen and keeps it there.

 

No one is sitting as the second out is called and the next Clippers player steps up, a single player on third base, already in position to high tail it for home plate. The batter hits the ball into the outfield and the entire team is on their feet as they watch the ball come hurtling back down towards the ground before being caught snugly in the fielder’s glove.

 

Their group dissolves into a raucous celebration, climbing all over the furniture to get to each other, locking their arms around anyone within reach. Some of them are screaming in victory, others are crying, Steve finds that he’s somewhere in between. The small pods of hugging teammates eventually all meld into one big pile up, the entire team sharing in their disbelief and exaltation.

 

Steve can’t quite believe it himself. They’re the #1 team in the entire International League, and will soon be facing off against the best team for the PCL to determine the top team of the Minor League as a whole. The PCL’s Champion has not been established yet, their top performers gridlocked into a much tighter race. It’s between four teams as of right now, who each have a handful of games left in the league, leaving things up in the air for at least a couple more days. One of these teams, of course, is the Malibu Irons, who are currently tied for first with games won and only up by one run overall according to Tony— who somehow always knew _everything_ about _every_ team in _every_ league _at all times_.

 

Some of the older players are rushing off to get to the nearest telephone to call home to their families and let them know. The emotions displayed from the Avengers’ older vets makes Steve a little misty-eyed himself. He knows for at least a couple of their players, namely Duquesne and Whitman, it’s going to be their last season before retiring. He feels a pang of sadness that Sam is no longer on the team to share in their accomplishments, but Steve knows he’s doing just fine for himself ever since making the jump back to the Major Leagues after last season.

 

He does make the time to excuse himself, going back to his hotel room to call Bucky. Of course, his longest friend had known as soon as it happened, always staying on top of the games. Honestly, he’s kind of similar to Tony in that sense, somehow always knowing what’s going on. They end up talking for an hour, just catching up and reminiscing in some of their memories from big moments like this that they had when playing for the Stars. Emotions heightened from the events, Steve has trouble not breaking down and sobbing on the phone. He’s not quite sure how he manages to keep himself past hysteria, eventually saying goodbye so he can go back and celebrate with his team.

 

Natasha and Janet are already busy, their phones ringing nonstop as media outlets try to get in contact with them about the news that The Avengers would be moving onto the post-season. Somehow, the team starts organizing a spontaneous celebration at the hotel, Steve not at all surprised that Tony is at the helm of the entire operation, charming his way through the hotel staff and their managers and probably appealing to their nature by slipping them a hefty tip and promise for good word-of-mouth.

 

“Your name sure does go far,” Steve tells him about an hour later after finding him along the crowded bar.

 

Tony spins around on his stool with a wide smile. The hotel bar is packed with people, a mix of their team, fans, and a few reporters here and there who weren’t invited for business purposes per se, but of course were welcome to socialize with the team and its supporters.

 

“Not me, Cap, this is all you,” he slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders, bringing him closer. The height difference is a little less pronounced with Tony sitting on a raised barstool and Steve standing, but he still has to duck down a little to allow the friendly action. “This is because of The Avengers, _your team_ ,” he jabs a finger into Steve’s chest, slightly uncoordinated.

 

“Our team,” Steve corrects. “And I think I need to thank you as much as anyone else. I know I don’t need to tell you this, but you bring a lot to the team. I can’t imagine we’d make it to this point without you.”

 

Steve expects the usual response, Tony preening from the praise, saying _of course it’s all because of him_. The oddly melancholy smile takes Steve by surprise. “It’s never been my team, Steve. Not really.”

 

Steve doesn’t have time to ask Tony to clarify when a woman suddenly slips into the space on Tony’s other side, leaning in front of him. “Hi, Mr. Stark? Christine Everhart from Vanity Fair. Is it okay if I talk to you for a few? Off the record, of course,” she flashes a brilliant white smile, holding out her hand.

 

Tony’s attentions immediately gravitate to her, dropping his arm away from Steve so he can accept her hand, kissing the back of it. “I always have time for Vanity Fair, and please, call me Tony…”

 

Steve has no interest in sticking around, knowing exactly how this conversation is going to go. He’s seen enough hourglass-figured ingénues cross into Tony’s path and completely occupy him for the immediate future. He spends the next few hours of his time seeking out fans and supporters of the team instead, engaging as many of them as he can in conversation to thank them properly. Without them, they’d have no one to be going to the Championship for aside from themselves. He doesn’t care how pedantic it sounds: he just can’t believe in that celebrating an accomplishment like this alone is nearly as gratifying as celebrating it with those that helped get you there in the first place.

 

He ends up having his fair share to drink that night, along with most of his teammates. Drinking in excess is a rarity for Steve, which makes him a bit of a lightweight despite his size and stature. He finds himself feeling all bubbly and rosy-cheeked, needing to excuse himself to the bathroom so he can splash himself with cold water and take a few moments to gather himself and sober up.

 

Steve is just about to leave the men’s room when he hears Tony's name, making him hesitate. It's a woman's voice speaking, her voice echoing from the other restroom next door.

 

"You should've seen me with the kid. I feel like an actual cougar taking candy from a baby," the voice laughs. "Yeah, already got his room number... Tony is such a naïve kid, the way he was mooning over me stroking his ego at the bar... Oh I'll do plenty more stroking, you know I have my ways." Steve quickly realizes this is a one-sided conversation, and she must be talking on the phone. "I'll get that out of him and more. I'm sure he'll be ready to spill every juicy detail he has about Stark Industries and how he _really_ feels about playing for the Avengers and if he’s transferring after the season… Of course I haven’t forgotten about the Hammer ordeal from a couple months ago, that’s the first thing I plan on wringing out of him… Yes, but those are just rumors, I’m pretty sure I can tell from the way he’s been ogling my chest all night that he’s definitely not some closet homo... They call it investigative journalism for a reason, I'm _investigating_. I just happen to have some better methods than your average reporter," she giggles again.

 

Steve wants to trust that Tony would never say a bunch of stuff to anyone from the media "off the record". If a beautiful woman was seducing _him_ for insider details, telling him everything he wanted to hear and doing everything he wanted to be done to him, Steve isn’t sure he would've been able to resist at Tony's age.

 

"And if that doesn't work, well, I have a little something special in my purse that I can slip into his drink to make him talk... I better go. He's probably wondering where I am."

 

Steve hears her hang up the call and hides behind the bathroom wall. He sees a blonde woman exit, walking down the hall while slipping her cell phone back into her purse. It’s Christine, the reporter for Vanity Fair that had been all over Tony at the bar earlier. This journalist is different, a snake if Steve's ever seen one in human form. She seems completely confident in her ability to swindle information out of Tony, and Steve just knows that if she’s successful he’ll be kicking himself over the repercussions.  If he wasn't concerned enough before, hearing that the woman plans to drug Tony kicks his fear into overdrive. Tony's safety is now on the line, which matters much more than his or the team's reputation. He has to do something.

 

Feeling sobered up by his own nerves but still bolder than usual thanks to the liquid courage, Steve returns to the main ballroom, looking around for Tony. All he has to do is get to him before he heads up to his hotel room... the biggest problem is that Steve doesn't see him _anywhere._

 

He starts asking every teammate of theirs he sees if they've seen Tony, no one knowing for sure where the pitcher ran off to. He double checks the bathrooms, the lobby, and the outside patio where he bumps into Rhodey.

 

"Rhodes, perfect, where's Tony?" Steve asks.

 

Rhodey takes a step back, placing his arm on Steve's shoulder. "Whoa, buddy, what's the rush? Last I saw him he was heading back to his room." Steve takes off running before Rhodey can say anymore.

 

Steve doubts anyone at the front desk of this swanky hotel is going to give out Tony’s room number. Luckily enough, Steve spots Janet standing over at the bar, laughing with Natasha and Clint. Their manager is bound to have an idea considering she handles all the room assignments when they travel. He rushes over, squeezing between them to grab her attention.

 

"Janet, what's Tony's room number?”

 

Janet looks a little startled and confused, frowning at Steve. "What? Why do you need Stark's room number?"

 

"Steve, you look like you're about to have a heart attack," Natasha laughs, throwing her head back.

 

"Is the bouncing baby billionaire in twouble?" Clint slurs with an exaggerated pout, hanging onto Natasha for dear life. She slides his arm off her shoulders and he almost slams his face into the bar after losing the only support keeping him upright.

 

Steve ignores them, holding his manager by the shoulders. "Please, it's important."

 

Janet sighs and digs a folded piece of paper out of her jacket pocket. She scans it for a moment before putting it away. "Room 2071," she sighs.

 

"Thank you, thank you," Steve says before rushing off again, apologizing as he bumps into people on his way to the elevator. Even with his rushing, he didn't see Christine Everhart anywhere. He might be too late.

 

The elevator can't move fast enough as it climbs to the twentieth floor. Steve is lucky no one is waiting to get on, because he would've bowled them right over in his sprint to get to Tony's room.

 

He pounds on the door repeatedly. "Tony, open up! I know you're in there, I need to talk to you! It's an emergency!" Steve keeps knocking when no answer comes. "Tony, please. It's Steve." Maybe giving his name is the wrong move. If there’s anyone Tony  _isn't_  going to open the door for when he was trying to hook up with a hot blonde, it’s Steve Rogers.

 

To his surprise, the door opens, only marginally. Tony's peeking at him through the crack that the chain lock allows. His hair is mussed and he's clutching to slacks that he was either getting out of when Steve interrupted, or had just hastily thrown back on.

 

"What the  _fuck_ could you _possibly_ want right now, Steve?" Tony hisses, his face flushed. "I'm kind of in the middle of something."

 

"I know, but you can't trust her. Did you drink anything?" Steve is trying to look into Tony's eyes, seeing if his pupils are dilated or of he looks lightheaded at all.

 

"Her,  _who?_ And yeah, I've had a fair amount, like I do _all the time_ ," Tony rolls his eyes in annoyance. "Just because we're not all stickler lightweights like you—"

 

"I mean did you drink anything from Christine?" Steve interrupts.

 

Tony just stares at him with a blank slate of hatred. " _Who the hell is Christine_?"

 

Steve pushes the door with his hand, hearing the chain click as it strains to keep the door shut. "I know she's in here, Tony, you don't have to pretend."

 

Tony holds the door with both hands, trying to force it closed. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, man! Just leave," he sounds desperate now, pressing all of his body weight against the door to try and keep Steve out.

 

Steve continues to press. If Tony didn't want to admit he was sleeping with Christine, that was fine, but Steve was going to confront this woman himself if she thought drugging people was acceptable. "Let me in, Tony."

 

"Or what, you'll break the door down? It'll come out of your paycheck, buddy," Tony says through grit teeth, his strength no match for Steve's.

 

Steve gives one good push with his shoulder and the chain snaps. Tony jumps back as the door swings open, and Steve ignores his indignant cries as he shoves past him into the suite, looking around for any evidence of the reporter. They must've already been in the bedroom.

 

"Steve, stop!" Tony shouts, sounding more forceful than ever as he grabs at Steve's arms to try and keep him from walking towards the bedroom. His heels are digging into the carpet as Steve presses on. "I don't know what you think is going on here, but you need to leave  _now_."

 

Steve stops as Tony worms his way in front of him, blocking Steve from the door to the suite's bedroom. Tony almost looks scared right now, staring up at him with huge eyes, sweat beading along his forehead and chest. Steve halts, watching his chest heave as his knuckles turn white from holding onto the door frame.

 

"Steve, please," Tony begs again, his voice lowered now, less forceful. "Just turn around and go. I don't know what you think is going on, but I need you to get out."

 

Steve ignores his pleas, still furious about the entire situation. Tony is protecting this woman to save his own dignity or for some other reason that Steve can't think of. Meanwhile, she’s manipulating and putting Tony at risk just for a story. He can't let that slide.

 

Tony is still yelling for Steve to stop when he pries the younger man's fingers away from the knob, forcing the door open. "I'm sorry, Tony, but I have to—" Steve freezes when he stumbles onto the scene.

 

Steve didn't know exactly what he was going to find when he finally got to Tony's bedroom, not really concerned with details in the heat of the moment.

 

A naked man covering himself up with Tony's hotel bed sheets is not in the realm of possibility that even he could've come up with. Steve recognizes him as a part of the hotel staff, either a caterer or bellhop he had seen in passing. His uniform and Tony's clothes are strewn about the room, condoms and a small bottle of something sitting on the bed.

 

The man in the bed looks between Steve and Tony in surprise, not saying a word. Steve turns to look at Tony who's glaring at the ground in defeat, his jaw tight.

 

"Tony, I—"

 

 _"Out_."

 

"I'm sorry, I thought th—"

 

"Get the _fuck out_!" Tony finally shouts, shoving Steve's chest. " _Now_."

 

Numb, Steve backs out of the room, the bedroom door slamming behind him. He hears the crunch of the broken lock beneath his shoe as he exits, pulling the door shut behind him. He hears a dull crash come from the suite, either a lamp or a vase smashing against the floor.

 

Steve can't breathe properly again until he's in the elevator. He doesn't hit any buttons, just stands alone in the tiny metal box, clinging to the support bars. He isn't sure what happens next. Does Tony come charging out to explain himself and tell Steve it was some big misunderstanding? A well-orchestrated practical joke at his expense?

 

No one joins Steve in the elevator with any sort of explanation. It starts descending down to the lobby, a few people getting in along the way. Just when it empties out at the bottom floor, a group of Steve's teammates get on board.

 

"Rogers!" Clint greets, clapping him on the back. "You find Stark and kiss him goodnight?"

 

Steve stares at Clint in shock. "What?"

 

"Ignore him," Bruce sighs, shoving Clint against the wall so he has something to lean against. "He's completely wasted."

 

"Natasha drank him under the table," Victor comments with a smirk.

 

"She's Russian!" Clint exclaims. "Issa unfair advantage!"

 

"Sure is, pal," Stephen sighs, patting him on the back.

 

Bruce looks at Steve imploringly. "Are you okay? Is Tony?" The others in the elevator are still arguing about who's the biggest lightweight and aren't listening to their conversation. Steve is quiet, unsure of how to answer. "I saw you running around looking for him. You looked— You _still_ look pretty freaked."

 

"I'm okay," Steve finally answers, meeting Bruce's eyes. He knows that Bruce and Tony have been close since they started playing together, and Bruce was a good man in Steve's book. "Tony's fine too. It's a long story but I... overreacted."

 

"Okay," Bruce says, and lets it go. Steve knew there was a reason he liked the guy.

 

They all get out on floor nineteen, leaving Steve to go back up to floor twenty. His room is in the opposite direction of Tony's, but he finds his feet carrying him back towards room 2071.

 

He stands outside the door for a few moments. There's no sound coming from the room and right before Steve knocks, he thinks better of it and walks back to his own room.

 

When the next morning rolls around, most of the team gathers in the lobby to go do various activities around the city before their game in the late afternoon. Tony's absence doesn't go unnoticed by Steve and when the man asks Rhodey where his suitemate is, Rhodey just says he wasn't feeling well enough to come along on the excursion. Steve knows better; He's being avoided at all costs.

 

Steve does all he can to try and catch a private moment with Tony before the game and it doesn't come. He doesn't see him at lunch, doesn't find him at the gym or in the pool, and when the time comes to load the bus and head to the stadium, Tony is still nowhere to be found.

 

"Natasha," Steve grabs their coach's attention as she checks to make sure all of their gear gets on the bus. "Where's Tony?"

 

"Sick," Natasha answers, not glancing up from her clipboard. "He performed well enough yesterday, and considering we’re already going to the final, I'm going to let it go just this once."

 

Steve frowns. Natasha pushes the Avengers harder than any coach Steve has ever had in the past, and she sure as hell didn't accept excuses unless you were basically dying, season already in the bag or not.

 

Natasha notices Steve's lingering. "Strange is fine with filling in as pitcher if that's what you're worried about. Rochester’s batting line up is hardly a threat. We don't really need Tony as our ace pitcher this game."

 

"That isn't what I'm worried about... Rhodes said he hasn’t left his room all day—"

 

Natasha's sigh cuts him off. "Steve, I know that as captain of this team you're concerned about the well-being of all your players, but Tony's just recovering from some bender. He's shown these kinds of patterns since he first started in the league."

 

"Do you really think he had all that much to drink? And being in bed since yesterday—"

 

"The kid can handle a lot of liquor, I know that much. He probably dabbled in some kind of fun fairy dust last night that knocked him on his ass. I saw him this morning and if anything he just looked like he'd been crying."

 

Steve feels his heart sink down to his feet. "Really?"

 

"That or recovering from a drug trip," Natasha shrugs. "It's not my business as long as those drugs aren't the enhancing kind and he hasn't OD'd on the bathroom floor."

 

"You really think Tony gets into that kind of stuff?" Steve asks, put off by Natasha's blasé attitude around Tony's supposed drug trip. Of course, Steve knows better, but even if he didn't, he'd hope their coach would show a little more concern.

 

Natasha gives him a look. "And you don't? I don't think you know Tony as well as you think you do. People who grow up like him have access to that kind of stuff. His life would be too stressful or too boring without it, depending on the day." Steve continues to stand in front of her, worry lines prominent. She sighs. "Tell you what, we still got fifteen minutes before we have to leave. If you can make it quick—"

 

"Thanks, Nat," Steve says, already hurrying back into the building. He isn't sure Tony will even talk to him, but it's worth a shot.

 

As Steve rounds the corner of the hallway leading to Tony’s room, his heart skips a beat when he sees the door is already partially open. Maybe he can get in easier than he thought. Or the door would just get slammed in his face. As he gets closer, he sees a man crouched by the door with a toolbox propping it open.

 

"Um, is Tony in?" Steve asks, immediately feeling bad about the broken lock.

  
  
The maintenance guy glances up from his tools, frowning. "I don't think I'm supposed to let anyone in..."

  
  
"I'm his captain," Steve explains, hoping that being in the Avengers uniform will help his case. "I just came up to check on him before the bus leaves."

  
  
The guy looks him over and sighs. "Sure, I think he's out on the balcony." He scooches out of the way enough for Steve to enter the suite.

  
  
He sees Tony's back as he sits on a lounge chair on the balcony, a cigarette in one hand. Steve slides the door open, Tony glancing lazily over his shoulder. As soon as he sees it's Steve, he sits up to yell back into the suite. "Hey, no one is supposed to—"

  
  
Steve quickly slams the door shut. "Tony, I just wanted to check on you."

  
  
Tony glares and Steve notices the flush to his cheeks, now seeing that an almost empty glass was clutched in Tony's other hand. "Well, I'm alive. You can go now."

  
  
"Can we talk about—"

  
  
"Nope," Tony sits back down and takes a long drag from his cigarette. He blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, in Steve's direction. "You have a game to get to _, Cap’n_."

  
  
Steve waves away the cigarette smoke, taking a step closer to Tony despite his better judgement. He gets a whiff of the kid who smells like if he took a shower in the past two days, it was in nothing but booze. "Tony—"

  
  
"I'm not afraid to call security, Rogers," Tony barks, and it stings. He hasn't referred to Steve by his last name in so long. They were making progress and with one little misunderstanding and Steve caring a little too much, all that is down the drain.

  
  
Steve sighs. "I'm sorry. That's all." He's sure Natasha is checking her watch right now so he makes haste in getting to the parking lot. She doesn't say anything as he gets onto the bus, sitting in a row by himself.

  
  
They end up losing the game against the Red Wings, and even though it was a close game with few runs scored, Steve can't help but think it's because they didn't have Tony. He still gives Strange a pat on the back and tells him job well done afterwards, and Natasha soapboxes about what they could've done better the entire bus ride back to the hotel. The team is mostly humoring her as they’re all on the same wavelength of not really caring that they lost their second-to-last game of the regular season considering they’re already confirmed to move onto the big post-season game. Steve normally has notes to add during these after-game talks, but this time his heart's not in it. He stays seated.

  
  
Natasha sighs when they pull up to the hotel. "Alright, everyone, pack up if you didn't earlier and get all your stuff loaded on the bus. We're headed back to Manhattan in an hour." Steve almost forgot they’re headed home right after the game. This means he and Tony are going to be in the same space for a few hours whether the prodigy likes it or not.

  
  
Unfortunately, this is an incorrect assumption to make. An hour later once all the team is packed and ready to hit the road again, Tony's nowhere to be seen. Steve double checks the lobby, a frown on his face. He walks up to the man behind the reception counter.

  
  
"Hi, I'm just making sure everyone got checked out of their rooms okay but we're missing one of our players. Tony Stark? He was in room 2071." Steve wrings his hands nervously as the receptionist taps away at the keyboard.

 

"It looks like Mr. Stark checked out of his room about three hours ago. If it helps, I know a car came to pick him up."

 

That at least puts Steve’s worries of drunk driving at bay. "Okay, thank you." Steve heads back out to the bus, finding Natasha and Janet. "Did you guys know Tony went home already?"

 

This looked like news to both of them. "What?" Janet asks, immediately followed by Natasha kicking a tire of the bus.

 

“Damn kid is going to be the death of me,” she huffs, shaking her head. “You know what, it’s not my job to deal with this. Van Dyne, this one’s all you,” she points at Janet before stomping onto the bus. “I’ll kick his ass come practice time!” she shouts out an open window.

 

 _“I’ll_ kick his ass as soon as we’re back in Manhattan,” Janet grumbles under her breath, checking her pager. “I can’t believe he just ran off like that—y’know what, actually, I can,” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

 

Steve pats his manager on the shoulder. “He had a rough weekend. I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

 

Janet shakes her head. Steve can’t even convince himself with those words, let alone persuade someone else. “I know he’ll be okay, but I’m sick of him ignoring authority. This is the entire reason why I was hesitant to take him on but Fury _insisted_. He’s selfish, reckless, stubborn, doesn’t play well with others—”

 

“He’s a good kid,” Steve argues. “Don’t talk about him like he’s a liability!”

 

Janet stares at Steve, shocked and confused by his outburst. “He’s got you fooled too then,” she laughs dryly. “Listen, I like him, I do, but this is what he does, Steve. Stark brings it all on himself with his behavior and then claims to be the victim to get nice people like you to sympathize with him… But you’re right, he’s not a liability.” She steps onto the bus, turning back to give Steve one last pointed look. “At this point, he’s a _lost cause_.”

 

The more Steve realizes how people see Tony, the more he’s able to sympathize with the kid. Steve has dealt with his fair share of being held to unrealistic expectations, but it isn’t nearly to the extent that Tony is forced into. Steve is constantly trying to rise up to fill the image of a proper leader, an All-American, wholesome athlete that young children look up to and adult spectators can respect. No matter what Tony does, it seems like he’s shown in a negative light, to the point where even the people who are supposed to stand by him shun him as soon as he exhibits the behaviors that have already been assumed. Tony’s headstrong and pushes back at the first sight of opposition because he’s so used to being written-off before he’s even given the chance to show people what he’s capable of.

 

Guilt consumes Steve on the entire bus ride home, because he’d done exactly that when Tony first started playing on his team.

 

* * *

 

Steve doesn't expect to see Tony at practice come Tuesday, but as usual, he exceeds expectation.

 

He's stretching with Bruce, smiling and laughing at something Banner has said. It's good to see Tony smiling again, but his happy nature immediately disappears when he catches Steve out of the corner of his eye. Tony's face falls so quickly that Bruce turns to see what's set his friend off. He looks confused when he sees Steve, looking back at Tony who's now staring at the ground, mouth pressed in a tight line.

 

Steve decides to keep his distance during practice. Natasha works one-on-one with Tony for most of it since he missed the last game, letting Steve lead everyone else in their focus drills. Even though the regular season is almost finished, they still have two more games and then a week break before the Championship game against the Irons. This year being the first in a while that they’d be playing in the post-season, their hunger for victory is even stronger. Steve pushes himself extra hard during this practice, doing everything and anything to keep him from watching Tony out of the corner of his eye. He's dripping with sweat by the time Nat blows the whistle.

 

"Not you, Stark. You stay a little longer, I need to talk to you," Natasha calls out as the team makes their way off the field. No one else really notices Tony being called back, but Steve hesitates. Tony flashes him a dirty look at his pause, causing Steve to trip over his feet for a second as he hurries to get off the field.

 

The cold post-practice shower is satisfying, but not quite the level of distraction Steve needs right now. He moves so slowly that by the time he's finished with his shower, there is no laughter or sounds echoing throughout the locker room. Everyone’s already packed up and gone home, probably excited for their day off tomorrow.

 

Steve exits the shower hall with a towel wrapped around his waist. He isn’t expecting to see anyone, so it’s startling when he rounds the corner and finds Tony standing at his locker. He’s almost completely undressed, their eyes locking for a moment. Steve opens his mouth.

 

"No." Tony says immediately before dropping his underwear and striding right past Steve into the showers.

 

"Tony, please," Steve sighs, following him into the tiled room. "You can't avoid me forever, you know."

 

"Clearly," Tony mutters under his breath. He turns around, crossing his arms and leaning against one of the shower stalls. There's no curtain or door, just the linoleum wall to separate one showerhead from the next. Steve almost wants to avert his eyes. He’s seen all the players naked in passing, but things suddenly feel intimate where Tony is concerned. "What, you didn't get enough of an eyeful last weekend? Nothing's private between us now, right?" Tony asks sarcastically while padding towards him slowly, causing Steve to take a step back.

 

"Tony, I can't tell you how sorry I am. My actions were completely inappropriate and I just want you to know I don't judge you—"

 

"For being a fag?" Tony asks, raising his eyebrows. He's still walking towards Steve like a cat on the prowl.

 

Steve takes another step back. "I wouldn't use that language, but this doesn't change anything, Tony. You don't have to avoid me or skip games and practice, or worry that anyone's going to find out. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

 

Tony's expression is unreadable. "So you don't care? It doesn't make you... uncomfortable?" Tony's dark eyes trail down Steve's naked chest predatorily, sending a shiver down the older man's spine.

 

Steve swallows thickly, backing himself against the wall. "No. Whether you are or aren’t, it doesn’t matter to me and it— it's none of my business."

 

“We can make it your business if you want," Tony trails off, licking his lips as he steps well into Steve's personal bubble, reaching out with his hand. Steve's muscles twitch as Tony's fingers drag down his abs. "Why don't you drop that towel? You must've been pretty jealous of that valet I had in my bed."

 

Steve grabs Tony's wrist instinctively as soon as it touches the edge of his towel. Tony hisses in pain and Steve quickly drops the pitcher’s hand. "I don't know what you're trying to do, Tony, but you should stop." His tone is firm. This is Tony’s captain speaking now, not his friend. Or whatever they could’ve been considered before.

 

Tony's face is still at an impasse as he yanks his hand back and walks back over to the shower. "I know it bothers you, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not," he says, stepping under the shower’s warm spray. Steve watches him push his dark hair back from his face, water sluicing off his back muscles. “Just drop it and treat me like any other player. Pretend you don’t know I like taking it in the ass and that it doesn’t make you not wanna look me in the eye anymore.”

 

Steve doesn't have anything else to say, knowing Tony will twist his words or make him feel uncomfortable in some way or another. It’s not so much the harsh words that bring Steve discomfort, but the fact that he can feel he’s half-hard beneath the towel. He quickly leaves the showers and changes, thinking of anything and everything to make his erection disappear. It’s not difficult to stamp down whatever sort of feelings are causing his loins to stir when he has so many mixed, confused thoughts floating around in his head.

 

The thing is, Steve isn't sure exactly how he feels about this, despite Tony’s assumptions. He doesn’t know anyone... _gay_ , or so he thinks, at least. It isn’t exactly something people were free to shout from the rooftops in this day and age. If the average person doesn’t outwardly make their opinion clear with hate speech, it’s a quiet thought most Americans have in the back of their minds about that community of people. Steve has grown up in this homophobic environment, not quite understanding why it hurts anyone else who you do or don’t love or sleep with. He has no idea how to put this into words and offer it to Tony in a way that doesn’t make him sound over-compensatory or belittling.

 

If Tony thinks some inappropriate language and unconventional scare tactics are going to push Steve away, he’s sorely mistaken. If there’s one thing Steve Rogers isn’t, it’s a pushover. Even if Tony doesn’t want someone to pour his heart out to, he doesn’t want Tony to block him out because of this incident.

 

Steve waits outside by Tony's car, leaning against the hood. When Tony comes out of the building and sees Steve, he can already read the distaste in Tony's eyes even from a distance. "You really wanna get me alone, don't you, Rogers?" Tony calls out. His hair is still wet from his shower and he's swimming in an old Malibu Irons sweatshirt that hangs down over some ripped jeans and converse sneakers. He looks... Well, he looks like a twenty-one year old kid for once.

 

"Let's go grab something to eat," Steve offers. "You had a long practice."

 

Tony narrows his eyes. "What's the catch? Excuse my pun."

 

"No catch," Steve shrugs. "I just... I'm here if you want to talk. I like to think we were almost becoming friends before everything happened."

 

Tony opens his mouth for some biting remark but decides against it before he can voice his opinion. "Yeah, fine," he concedes. “And people call _me_ a stubborn ass.”

 

“I’m persistent.” Steve barely manages to catch the keys that Tony suddenly tosses to him.

 

" _Relentless_ might be a better word,” Tony sighs, opening the passenger side door. “You're driving. I feel like I'm still drunk."

 

"Tony, it's four in the afternoon..." Steve says weakly as Tony folds himself up in the passenger seat, pushing his sunglasses up on his nose. He doesn't argue further, because he really wants to drive Tony's nice Bugatti. "Where do you want to eat?"

 

"Somewhere greasy," Tony requests. "There's this dive bar/diner I really like on the corner of 5th and 73rd."

 

"Marnie's?"

 

Tony looks surprised. "Yeah, you know it?"

 

"Buck and I used to eat there all the time," Steve smiles fondly. “Haven’t gone in a while though.”

 

Tony hums, completely disinterested. "Yeah, their breakfast menu is pretty good."

 

There's no dialogue exchanged as they drive to the diner. Steve has sort of become accustomed to this with Tony, and it’s actually a nice break from the forced small talk Steve normally has to endure with most people.

 

Patrons are staring at the car from inside and Steve suddenly feels self-conscious stepping out of it. He probably looks as uncomfortable as he feels, while Tony probably looks like he was born to drive the French Roadster. They walk into the restaurant together, the hostess whistling.

 

"Nice ride, Steve."

 

"Thanks, Hannah, it's not mine," Steve laughs, gesturing to Tony.

 

She does a double take when she sees Tony. "You're not—"

 

"Tony Stark, yeah," Tony answers with a sigh, throwing Steve a ‘ _here we go again’_ smirk. "Big fan, I assume. Want me to autograph your apron there?"

 

Hannah frowns. "Who? No, I was going to say you're not Bucky."

 

Steve can't help but burst into laughter at Tony's expression. His body is still thrumming with laughter after they're seated.

 

"Wasn't  _that_ funny," Tony grumbles under his breath, sinking into the booth with a pout.

 

"I'd have to disagree," Steve laughs. It's kind of satisfying to see Tony's ego knocked down a peg every now and then.

 

A bubbly red-headed waitress Steve doesn't recognize comes over with menus, eyes only for Tony. "Hey, darlin', you doing your usual?"

 

"You know it," Tony flashes her a smile. "They working you hard today, Dove?"

 

Dove giggles, a sound so fake it almost makes Steve gag. "No harder than usual.”

 

“Then you won’t mind if I work you hard later, hm?” Tony looks at her so sensually that even Steve flushes. If he was a woman who was even marginally attracted to Tony, he isn’t sure how he’d be able to resist that kind of charm directed right at him.

 

Dove is practically glowing with the attention Tony’s giving her. “Maybe I’ll see you when my shift is done.”

 

“Maybe you will,” Tony smiles at her, folding his hands on the table. “My friend Steve here is ready to order.”

 

Dove seems to remember there’s two customers sitting in front of her, and Steve doesn’t miss the way she ogles at him for a moment before speaking. “Well, hi, Tall, Blonde, and Handsome. What can I wet your whistle with today?”

 

“I’ll just have a black coffee,” Steve replies. The way the waitress is batting her eyelashes at him, he suddenly prefers her attention being focused on the man sitting in other side of the booth.

 

“Nothing sweet for ya today?” she asks, leaning her body forward in such a way that Steve feels it necessary to avert his eyes to save his own dignity rather than hers.

 

Tony feels no such courteous urge, happily eyeing her cleavage. “Not his tastes, but you know I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

 

All it takes are some corny lines for the waitress’ affections to shift back to her first object of desire. “I’ll be right back to satisfy your tastes then.”

 

Tony winks as she goes, his eyes following her all the way into the kitchen. Steve snaps his fingers to bring him back down to earth. Tony smirks at him. “Jealous?”

 

Steve just snorts and busies himself with the menu. “You’re absolutely ridiculous, you know that right? And here I thought I was the one who was going to come across as overcompensating.”

 

Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “What am I supposedly overcompensating for? It’s a crime to flirt now?”

 

“Do you intend to follow through?” Steve glances up. “Or do you enjoy playing games with people’s emotions?”

 

Tony scoffs. “We’re all not like you, Rogers. Emotions and sex don’t mix for some of us. There’s a thing that exists in the world that we live in called  _flirting_. I know your game is to probably woo through brief hand holding and shy glances with your gorgeous blue eyes, but not everyone needs to be _courted_.”

 

Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever figure Tony out. “You don’t have to pretend you’re something you’re not. I told you I don’t judge—”

 

“What exactly am I pretending to be?” Tony crosses his arms, sitting back in the booth. “Please, tell me since you’re such the _expert_ on my life.”

 

Steve sighs. “Tony, I don’t want to talk about it like this. I’m not attacking you—” Steve sees Dove coming back towards them and decides to shut up. This isn’t a conversation they should be having in front of a complete stranger.

 

She sets down a beer for Tony and a mug of coffee for Steve. “So what are you two cravin—”

 

“Not attacking,” Tony interrupts the woman, still staring Steve down. “Just assuming I’m a damn _queer_.”

 

Steve is glad he didn’t go for a sip of his coffee right away. He might’ve choked on it.

 

“…I’ll come back when you guys are ready to order,” Dove says quietly before rushing off to her other tables.

 

The booth is quiet for a while, Tony downing the beer in a few swigs. Dove covertly manages to replace the empty bottle with a full one without engaging the mute couple. Steve takes a slow sip of his coffee. Just this once, he’s not going to talk first. He’ll happily leave the ball in Tony’s very volatile court.

 

Tony waits until his second beer is done before he speaks. “I like women, I like their company, I like their bodies. I’ve had sex with women and while it was enjoyable at the time, it doesn’t quite interest me anymore.” He’s leaned forward now, voice low, hushed. His mission is no longer to make a scene, but keep a private conversation between the two of them. “I like sex with men and I’ve always been attracted to them—since as long as I can remember really. If that makes me gay, then I guess I’m gay.”

 

Steve leans forward as well. No one is sitting close enough to hear, but he’s glad Tony feels safe enough to finally talk about it in an open space. “I’m not trying to label you, Tony, I’m just trying to understand.”

 

Tony’s eyes fall away for a moment, some of the intensity lost. “Yeah well, good luck. It’s not like I made this choice,” Tony scoffs. “Such a stupid argument. Why would I choose to be discriminated against and make my life harder?” Tony’s restless fingers tap on the table, his gaze drifting out the window. “I know it pisses people off how honest I am. I share all my opinions no one wants to hear, and everybody asks the same questions: Why don’t I just shut up? Why do I have to be so loud about everything I put out in the world? Can’t I just follow social norms and keep quiet on the stuff that makes people uncomfortable?” Tony looks back at Steve, his dark eyes as empty as Steve has ever seen them. “I’m already forced to hide away a huge part of my life for the sake of others. I’m not giving up science, my looks, my wealth, or anything else.”

 

Steve is speechless, and he’s not sure if there’s a single appropriate reply to what Tony just laid out in front of him. Dove is suddenly a saving grace, finally coming back to take their orders now that most of the tension has dissolved.

 

“Does anyone else know?” Steve asks quietly once they’re alone again.

 

Tony draws a finger through the condensation on his third bottle. “No. Well, I guess that’s not true. Pepper knows, but she knows everything about my life. It’s kind of impossible for her not to,” he shrugs. “We don’t talk about it. She’s not my assistant anymore now that I’m in New York, but she’s still the head of my PR department. If it comes up in conversation, she just makes it very clear that it’s something I’m meant to keep—” Tony swallows thickly. “ _Private_. It’s why I have to make such a playboy image of myself so people won’t suspect anything.”

 

Steve can't imagine how Tony’s dealing with all of this. His closely guarded secret is now known by someone he isn't exactly a fan of. He has no one to reach out to. Even in Steve's most isolated moments, he always had Bucky that he could rely on. He thinks back to how he was treated by Hammer in the big confrontation after the All-Star Game, and the way even some of the other players had looked at him in disgust at the insinuations his former-teammate had made. Tony has exactly zero support in all of this.

 

“Your parents don’t know?”

 

Tony scoffs, like the notion is completely ridiculous. “And have my mother cry every time she looks at me and worries about my hardships? Have it be the final nail in the coffin for Howard to disown me completely? I’m not going to be ostracized from my parents any more than I already am because of what goes on in my life.”

 

Steve knows Tony and Howard’s relationship wouldn’t be able to take that blow, but no matter how Tony thought Maria would react, she would never condemn him. “Your mom would love you no matter what.”

 

Tony smiles sadly. “I know, but it’d still kill her slowly. She wants grandkids and Howard wants an heir… I feel worse about the grandkids part.”

 

Steve presses his lips together. “You don’t owe them anything.”

 

Tony laughs bitterly. “Try telling them that. Try telling _everyone_ that.”

 

“Tony…” Steve sighs. “I’m completely supportive of your decision to hide your sexuality if you think it’s best. Knowing what I know about the sports world since I’ve started, I’d sadly have to agree that it’s what’s best. But I don’t want you to think you have to hide it from the people who care about you—”

 

“Steve,” Tony interrupts with a sense of urgency that immediately quiets his captain. Tony looks tired. “I’m… I’m sort of done talking about this.”

 

“Of course,” Steve nods. “Thanks for talking to me about it… Like I mentioned before, your secret is safe with me.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Steve actually does choke on his coffee now. “I’m sorry—what did you just say?”

 

Tony’s glaring sourly at him, but there’s a humorous twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s fighting a smile. “Not sayin’ it again. Don’t want you to get used to hearing it.”

 

“I didn’t think you were able to say those words is all,” Steve shrugs. “You’re always surprising me.”

 

Tony kicks Steve playfully under the table, his mood lifted significantly. “Fuck off.”

 

They share a smile just as Dove comes back with their food. She doesn’t engage in conversation, Tony immediately digging into his full breakfast platter. Steve just went with an omelets and French toast while Tony had an array of sausages, pancakes topped with berries, scrambled eggs, and hash browns to choose from.

 

"What was your big dream purchase when you realized you were making a career out of baseball?" Tony asks, clearly shifting the subject into something more personal to Steve rather than himself.

 

Steve just shrugs. "Nothing, really. I mean, I spent money to upgrade my bike, fix my old beater car, but that's about it. The only other things I spend it on is paying rent, buying groceries, and then the rest goes into the bank."

 

Tony groans loudly, garnering attention from the couple sitting in the booth behind him. "So frugal! Boring! C'mon, man, you're telling me there's no big dream purchase you had in mind?"

 

Steve thinks about it for a few moments. "Well... I guess there's one thing."

 

"Let’s hear it," Tony spears another mini sausage on the end of his fork. "Fancy car, flat screen TV, penthouse in Beverly Hills, fancy vacation to Santorini, the world is yours."

 

Steve isn't even sure where Santorini is. "A house."

 

Tony looks underwhelmed. "A house," he repeats.

 

Steve nods. "Upstate. We were extremely poor growing up. My dad wasn't around for too long and my mom worked tons of jobs just to make ends meet. I loved Brooklyn, but it was always my dream to one day have enough money that I could buy a house for me and my mom in the country upstate. A big yard, white picket fence, porch with a swing, all that good stuff."

 

Steve was expecting ridicule or at least for Tony to poke a little fun. The younger of the two does neither. "Is Mom still around?" He asks softly.

 

Steve shifts in his chair uncomfortably. "Ah, no. She died when I was about sixteen."

 

"Sorry to hear that," Tony says, and he does sound very sorry. Steve didn't know Tony had a sympathetic bone in his body. "But I bet your mom would still want you to buy that house for yourself. Settle down with a nice wife and your 2.5 kids." Tony dips another sausage in an obscene amount of syrup before shoving it in his mouth. "Regular nuclear family."

 

Steve shrugs. Sure, that's what's expected of him, but he's not really sure that's what he wants. Delving into his plans for the future isn't really what he wants to be focusing on right now.

 

“Did you always know you wanted to play baseball?” Tony inquires, seemingly out of nowhere as he examines a forkful of berries before deciding they’re fit for consumption.

 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve answers, not really having thought about it. “I was kind of a sickly kid growing up. Bad immune system, allergic to everything. There was an empty sandlot outside the apartment I grew up in and kids were always gathering down there to play. No one ever invited me until Bucky noticed me watching from the firescape one day and called me down.”

 

“Bucky?”

 

“My best friend,” Steve clarifies, somehow forgetting that the two have never met, despite their significance in his life. “He lived directly below us. My mom was pretty protective of me at the time, but Buck always took care of me and made sure I didn’t push myself too hard. I started playing outside with them more and more, and baseball was a huge part of me getting stronger. After high school, Bucky wanted to start taking it more seriously, so we started in the rookies together…” Steve bites down on his lip, realizing that Tony has probably heard his life story at least from that point onward about a hundred times from his father. “When did you know you wanted to play?” He deflects, knowing that if there was one way to appeal to the young star it was to get him to talk about himself.

 

Tony seems lost in contemplation as he pushes around the scrambled eggs on his plate. “I mean, that’s kind of a redundant question, don’t you think?” Tony asks, a wry smile gracing his face without any light in it touching his eyes. “I don’t really think I ever wanted to play baseball professionally. I didn’t even play as a kid.” Steve does realize what a silly question it is, even if it’s just an attempt to try and get Tony to open up. He remembers his conversation with Howard years ago about how Tony had no interest at all in picking up a glove and a bat.

 

“I grew up around it, _obviously_ , so of course the thought was always there. My dad was always pressuring me about it, telling me that I’d join the Irons one day and be his shining little star before eventually transitioning into helping him run Stark Industries. Despite all that, I just found baseball— any team sport really— so dreadfully boring. I preferred reading and building things and computers. All I wanted to do was play around with tech, but everyone was expecting me to be some jock toy soldier. My mom was the only one who actually supported what I wanted to do…” his expression actually softens into a real smile, and Steve can’t help but mirror it as he thinks of Maria and her fierce devotion to maintaining her son’s happiness.

 

“What made you start playing then?” Steve asks, curiosity gnawing at him.  Everyone’s story is different, but he has never met a player like Tony, one who holds such vitriol towards the sport but continues to pursue a career in it. “Why not do something with Engineering?”

 

Tony’s mouth twitches in amusement, making Steve wonder what he just missed going on in that big brain of his. “After I graduated, I already had plenty of investors who wanted to hire me for contracted work, or companies who wanted to take me on as a designer but… I don’t know. None of them felt like the right fit. I wanted some time to pursue some passion projects and work on my doctorates, but I’d go crazy if that’s _all_ I was working on. So what started out as a joke of me talking to Howard about joining the team ended up… Well, you know exactly how that ended up,” he smiles ruefully at Steve, giving a little flourish with his hands. “Here we are.”

 

It doesn’t seem like it’s all as simple and from point A to B as Tony’s making it out to be, Steve wanting some blank steps along the way filled in. He can’t help but think back to the conversation he had with Howard in his Baseball room, thinking about the warning he had gotten that Tony’s selfish nature would destroy the Avengers if given the opportunity. There may have been some bumps along the road, but as far as Steve is concerned, Tony has been a beneficial catalyst to his team’s performance.

 

Maybe Howard was right about the sharp-eyed teenager that Steve had first seen in an interview from four years ago. A cocky, self-righteous child who had been spoiled to believe he’d been blessed with pietistic abilities that no other player could touch. But that isn’t the Tony sitting across from him in this diner today, poor-postured and vulnerably exhausted.

 

“Ah, fuck,” Tony suddenly swears, Steve just now noticing how pale he looks. Arm clutching loosely at his stomach, he scrambles to get out of the booth, knocking the table with his knees as he does so. Before Steve has the chance to question him, Tony is gone in a flash, flying into the bathroom.

 

Dove swings back around to their table a couple of minutes later, her eyes darting over to the bathroom door. “You two doin’ alright over here?” She asks, a slightly nervous lilt to her voice. “Can I get you anything else?”

 

“I’ll take a coffee with milk,” Steve follows her gaze over to the bathroom door. “Make that two, actually. And the check, please.”

 

She takes away their plates and brings out two fresh cups of coffee, his with milk and Tony’s black, sugar and creamer on the side. The coffees are cooled enough to drink by the time Tony slogs his way back into the booth, still looking pale with a sheen of sweat coating his olive-toned skin.

 

“You okay?” Steve asks pointlessly, the answer plain as day in front of him.

 

Tony’s hand trembles slightly as he picks up the steaming mug and takes a few weak sips. “Considering I just lost that entire breakfast to the toilet? Been better.”

 

Steve hopes Tony doesn’t think poorly of him because of it, but he has to laugh. “Why don’t I drop you off at home?”

 

Tony’s head bobbles. “Probably a good idea…” He furrows his brow. “Wait. We took my car.”

 

“Yeah, I can walk home,” Steve shrugs. “And just pick up my car in the morning or something.”

 

Tony shakes his head, seeming displeased at his idea. “No, we should go back to the stadium so you can get your own car.”

 

“I’m not letting you drive like this,” Steve disagrees. “My place is a few blocks closer and has less parking requirements, why don’t we just go back there so you can sleep this off? Then we’ll go back to the stadium when you’re feeling up to it, deal?”

 

Tony’s still making a face like he’s not thrilled about this idea either, or maybe that face is because he’s tasting round two of his breakfast again. “Fine,” he deflates, throwing too much cash down on the table and dragging himself out of the booth, heavily gripping onto anything within arms reach. Steve takes pity on him and wraps an arm around his shoulders to help keep him upright, waving politely at the hostess as he helps Tony hobble back to his car.

 

The man passes out almost immediately once they’re in the car, Steve feeling bad that he has to wake him again when they arrive at his apartment a few minutes later. Tony doesn’t seem that perturbed, grumbling some kind of equation or principle under his breath as Steve ushers him into his building, taking the elevator up to the sixth floor.

 

He almost has half a mind to feel self-conscious as he lets the other man into his apartment, knowing it isn't near anything up to Tony’s standards as far as size and luxury went. The billionaire doesn't seem to care, drifting out of Steve’s hold as soon as there's a couch in sight. He collapses face down onto the big, ugly, brown thing, a content sigh leaving him. Steve goes to the kitchen to pour a tall glass of water, and upon returning to the living room finds Tony snoring softly with one leg already hanging off the edge of the couch. Steve sets the glass down as quietly as possible on the coffee table and grabs an afghan off the back of the couch to drape it over his sleeping form.

 

Deciding against leaving Tony out here to fend for himself in case he pukes again in his sleep or wakes up completely confused as to where he is, Steve grabs a sketch pad and makes himself comfortable in one of his chairs by the window. He doodles randomly for a few minutes before he realizes more often than not, he finds his gaze wandering over to the snoozing, hungover pitcher on his couch. He’s shifted a little bit in his sleep, sort of curled up on one side with his face turned outwards now rather than mashed into the cushions.

 

Steve’s hand starts to draw before he even realizes what he’s doing, marking down the contours of his face and the vague outline of his shapeless form beneath the blanket. He thought Tony might look more peaceful in his sleep, but if anything, his mind seems just as active as when he’s awake. He keeps seeing little ticks on Tony’s face, his lips parting and closing occasionally like some part of his addled brain is still trying to form a clever remark, eyebrows twitching expressively, his long, dark lashes fluttering as if his ever-searching eyes are still trying to find something interesting to piece together or pick apart on the inside of his eyelids.

 

Steve ends up with multiple half-finished sketches of Tony’s sleeping face that fill up his entire page, going back in and taking the time to clean a few specific ones up, marking down a harsher, more definite line here or there, adding some cross-hatching to mark where the light and shadow falls across the planes of his face. He even finds himself including the four, almost invisible, hair-thin white lines that stretch across his exposed cheek— where Hammer’s nails had marred his face many months ago.

 

He isn’t quite sure how much time has passed when Tony begins to stir, Steve jumping and defensively closing the sketchbook when he sees the pair of bleary, brown eyes blink open. He quickly shoves it into a nearby bookshelf and grabs a random tome to replace it, pretending to read the pages as Tony slowly sits up, stretching his arms and cracking his back.

 

“Holy hell, I need a couch like that,” Tony grunts around a particularly good stretch, craning his head sideways to pop his neck. “Mine’s not anywhere near that comfy, it’s just shitty and leather and square.”

 

Steve shrugs one shoulder, fingers flicking nervously at the corner of the worn out book. “Yeah, but yours looks a lot nicer than mine.”

 

“What’s the use of a couch that looks nice if it doesn’t feel nice to sit on?” Tony counters around a yawn, lifting up his hoodie a little as he scratches sleepily at his stomach. There are seam lines indented on his cheek that was pressed against the couch, it almost comical in the way it mirrors the faint scars on the other side.

 

Steve doesn’t bother to answer Tony’s question as he’s fairly sure it’s rhetorical considering Tony is probably used to owning many, many things that are purely for aesthetics rather than functionality. “Water,” he points out instead. “Drink it.”

 

“You caveman. Fire bad,” Tony replies sarcastically but picks up the glass and dutifully downs the whole thing in a few chugs, wiping his hand off on the back of his mouth. He starts to actually look around the apartment now, Steve realizing it’s the first time Tony’s ever been over to his place. He doesn’t really have any guests other than Bucky, but he’s at least glad the flat is relatively clean and organized. “What are you reading?” He asks suddenly.

 

“Uh,” Steve has to flip the book closed to check the cover, having absolutely no idea what he had grabbed. “ _The Lais of Marie De France._ ”

 

“What’s it about?”

 

“Um, well, it’s a series of twelve poems, so they’re all about something a little bit different. One of them is actually known for being the first ever documented myth about werewolves.”

 

“Hm,” Tony makes a sound of his throat that doesn’t sound the least bit interested. He tosses the blanket off his legs and stands up. “You have a lot of movies,” he notes, nodding towards the collection against the wall. There is a large bookshelf next to the TV, pretty much stacked full of VHS tapes as well as some overflow of his vinyl collection that continued on another shorter book case against the other wall, his record player sitting on top of it.

 

“I like movies,” Steve replies, cursing inwardly when he realizes he is sounding a bit Neanderthalish. Tony strays closer to examine the titles, tilting his head at a ninety degree angle. Now that Tony is up and seemingly back to his old observant self, it’s officially the time for Steve to actually feel judged about his living space. “I haven’t bought too many recently because my VCR has been broken for a couple of months. Haven’t had the time to take it down to an electronics shop to have them fix it.”

 

“Do you have some basic tools?” Tony asks, not missing a beat.

 

“What?”

 

Tony turns his impatient gaze on him, hands on his hips. “Tools. Have any? Like, a screw diver? Tweasers? A cotton swab? A pencil? Rubber band? Literally anything?”

 

Steve digs around in his hallway closet until he procures a basic tool bag, bringing it out for Tony’s inspection. He pokes around inside for a moment and makes a nonpartisan noise before sitting down cross legged by the TV and unplugging his tape player to drag it out onto the floor in front of him. He purses his lips and looks at the separate device Steve had specifically to rewind the tapes and he yanks that over as well.

 

Steve watches as he starts to unscrew the panels on the device. The inside looks insanely complicated to Steve, not even sure how the damn thing works. He just sticks the tapes in and hits the little arrow button for it to pop back out and that’s that. Tony immediately starts picking it apart, holding pieces up to his eye before either putting them off to the side or sticking them in a new position.

 

“You know, I sort of forget you were an engineering student,” Steve remarks in amusement, tilting his head to the side as Tony’s nimble fingers meticulously disembowel his tape recorder.

 

One corner of Tony’s mouth tilts up in an odd little smile. “Mm. Everybody does.”

 

Steve decides he’s of absolutely no help just standing around watching Tony work with a bunch of components he doesn’t even understand, and decides to putt around his kitchen. He looks for something to do, things to clean, starts prepping some ingredients he can incorporate into some kind of dinner later while Tony works. He glances over into the living room every now and again, seeing varying sizes of plastic and mechanical odds and ends strewn about on the floor in the same organized chaotic fashion that Tony’s workshop back in Malibu had displayed.

 

“Done,” Tony calls out to him in what can’t be more than twenty minutes later. Steve walks back into the living room to see his VCR back on the stand an in one piece, pieces of his rewinder still on the floor in a neat little pile.

 

“It’s fixed?” Steve asks incredulously. “I didn’t even tell you what was wrong with it— I mean, I didn’t even know what was wrong, it just stopped working one day.”

 

“Didn’t need you to tell me,” Tony scoffs, as if he’s totally offended by the idea. He gets to his feet, wiping his hands off on his jeans. “I also installed the rewinder right into the machine so you don’t need this anymore,” he kicks the now gutted leftovers of his separate machine. “You’ll just use this new little button on the end.”

 

“Wow,” Steve says, unsure why he’s so surprised when he’s seen Tony do much more complicated work. Maybe it’s because whatever he cooked up in his labs were so beyond anything Steve could ever understand, and he couldn’t believe Tony would spend any time, as short as it was, on such a mundane charge. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

 

“I know,” Tony shrugs, looking back at him. “Ready to go get your car now?”

 

And just like that, they head back down to the garage, loop back to the Polo Grounds, Steve gets in his car and waves goodbye to Tony who barely returns it with a raise of two fingers against his steering wheel before he’s peeling out of the parking lot. Dazed and confused, Steve contemplates things in his car for a bit before turning the key in the engine and returning home.

 

He watches Stand By Me that night on his newly repaired VCR, curled up on his ugly-but-comfortable brown monstrosity of a couch with his afghan that still vaguely smells of citrus shampoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, (is it really firstly if I'm putting this at the end? Oh well, I just didn't want to blab a bunch at the beginning of the chapter so you guys could just get to reading it instead of listening to my nonsense) I just want to apologize with how long it took me to get this chapter uploaded for you guys. Believe it or not, I had what I thought was a majority of the chapter written already... and then I just kept writing... and writing... and adding more scenes... and writing... and here we are, at almost 32k words, about twice as long as all the chapters before it. And that's not including an additional 6k or so of a scene I decided to push off onto the next chapter... lol
> 
> I hope you all can forgive me for the wait-- I figured at least I was giving you double the content right? Right? (Also hoping that all the development/general Stony goodness will keep y'all well fed enough that you forgive me for taking almost a month to upload.) Forreal though, this chapter was a ton of fun to write and I guess that's why I just... kept......... going...... 💀
> 
> Anyhoo, I can make no promises on when I will update next, but I am SO dedicated to getting this fic done as soon as possible without fully frying my brain because of it. I will hopefully be on a once a 2-3 week upload schedule, but forgive me if I don't manage that over the holidays. I'm going to do my best and really do apologize it took so long to get this chapter out.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for continuing reading and leaving such nice comments. 💕 See you guys with chapter 5 in 2-3 weeks! (Hopefully!!!)


	5. Situational Hitting

March, 1992 

 

It’s any other day. Steve’s fun fact calendar that Bucky got him as a joke (that had actually made itself very useful and became a little joy Steve looks forward to every morning) informs him that it’s the Ides of March. Curious, Steve rolls over in bed, leaning closer to his nightstand to squint past the blurry haze in his freshly opened eyes and read the blurb beneath the big red 15.

 

_A day on the Roman calendar that marked by several religious observances and was notable for the Romans as a deadline for settling debts. In 44 BC, it became notorious as the date of the assassination of Julius Caesar, a turning point in Roman History._

 

“Ouch. Sorry, Julius,” Steve says to the calendar before throwing his covers off him.

 

The Avengers are playing another home friendly today, a double-header against a team from New Hampshire. Despite their loss in last year’s post-season, the team feels stronger than ever so far with all their exhibition games. It was the first year in over a decade since they were even able to make it to the Championship, the team from Manhattan now growing into a fan favorite to take it all the way again this season.

 

As Steve drives towards the stadium, he can’t help but think of what an impact Tony has made on the team he considers family. They were still skilled and dedicated players before the Stark Boy Wonder came along, but something had changed ever since he showed up, a blazing fury that quickly ignited the sparks that helped propel them to levels they had never reached in seasons prior.

 

Steve can hardly believe they’re only beginning their fourth season with him on the team. It feels like he’s been a staple member of their squad for far longer than that, the conversation they had about Tony not planning on sticking around longer than one season feeling like it had happened devades ago. Same as it had the past three years, December signings came and went, Tony mysteriously disappeared from New York during the break, and sure enough, he was back at the Polo Grounds come the first practice in February.

 

Their loss to the Irons in the Championship had obviously been the hardest on Tony. It had been a hard-fought game by the entire team, but clearly they hadn’t been the only ones frothing at the mouth for a win. It was a remarkably close match, the final score only coming out to 3-2 after nine long innings. Tony had disappeared as soon as the game was over, most likely taking his off-season vacation early to avoid the media. Steve couldn’t blame him, even if he knew his coping methods weren’t the healthiest.

 

As usual, Steve is one of the first players to show up, discussing the line-up with Natasha as the rest of the team trickles in and begins their warm ups before the start of the game. Investors are filling their boxes, spectators are eagerly getting to their seats, and sure enough, the last player on their team finally wanders into the locker room.

 

“You look excited to be here,” Steve comments, Tony’s mouth open wide in a yawn as he stops in front of his locker which is now directly beside Steve’s.

 

Tony tosses his duffel bag inside, pulling his wrinkled t-shirt off over his head before he kicks his converse off and into the locker with two metallic thuds. “Had to endure Howard calling me at the crack ass of dawn to scream about how I didn’t take the last game seriously enough, which then transitioned into his classic ‘When are you going to come home and be on the team you actually belong to?’ tirade. And then he started—” Tony pauses to let another yawn through. “—talking about how I’m clearly doing all this to spite him, and how ungrateful I am for having no interest in taking over his business, and for insisting to go to MIT and get an engineering degree then not even put it to use.” He changes into his uniform as he continues to rant, balling up his street clothes and angrily chucking them into his locker. “Then of course my mom overhears and starts yelling at Howard, which then got _them_ into a fight, and then it was all downhill from there. So, _no_ , I’m not all that excited to do much of anything today.”

 

Tony slams his locker door shut and sinks down onto a bench, jersey unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder. Steve knows the frustration isn’t aimed at him, and it definitely seems like Tony was ready to get the confrontation off his chest. He sits down next to Tony, placing a hand on his bare shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. But your dad is wrong. About all of it. Especially saying you didn’t take the last game seriously. I mean, sure, we lost, but you only pitched for four innings.”

 

Tony shrugs on his jersey, Steve’s hand sliding off him with the movement. “Yeah, well, at least it means he’s actually watching,” he sighs, angrily buttoning himself up.

 

“Hey, we’re both starting today, so at least you have that to look forward to,” Steve informs him, trying to be optimistic. “You’ll pitch circles around New Hampshire’s batting lineup.”

 

Tony scoffs, wiping some nonexistent dirt off his nose. “I pitch circles around everyone’s batting lineup,” he counters, bumping his shoulder into Steve’s before grabbing his glove. He jumps to his feet and starts stretching his arms out in front of him as he heads out onto the field, but Steve can still see the line creasing between his brows.

 

“Hey,” he calls out to Tony, standing to follow him. “Why don’t we go out after the games today? We can check out that new glow-in-the-dark bowling place that Scott and Clint keep talking about if you want. Might brighten up your spirits?”

 

Tony allows a small smile to grace his pinched face as they walk together through the tunnel. “I thought they said it was mini-golf.”

 

“Maybe it’s both,” Steve suggests.

 

“Nah, that sounds stupid, it’ll never take off,” Tony snorts, tilting his head to look sideways at Steve. “Is this offer a team kind of outing or a Just-You-and-Me thing?”

 

“I was thinking Just-You-and-Me thing, but we can invite the others along too if you want.”

 

Tony grins at him. “I think I prefer our Us Plans, no offense to the rest of the lot.”

 

“Stark!” Natasha blows her whistle angrily from a few dozen yards away. “Get over here and get some warm-up pitches in, we got fifteen minutes.”

 

“See you out there,” Tony smacks him gently with his mitt before jogging over to where Vision was crouched by home plate, probably to talk strategy before the game started. Steve is pleased he looks a little more alive than when he had first turned up, thinking to himself that he prefers their Us Plans too.

 

The Us Plans have sort of become a regular occurrence in Steve’s routine ever since he discovered Tony’s secret last year. The only person he’s really bothered to hang out with one-on-one in his life of navigating adult friendships has been the person he was always with even as a kid, and that’s Bucky. With his best friend living his own life upstate, Steve is lucky that the pair of them manage to make the time to visit each other. Steve’s schedule makes it hard, especially during travel weeks, but he still gets to see Bucky at least a couple of times a month.

 

He still gets dinner occasionally with Natasha or Janet, sometimes both of them at once, and even though he’s friends with both ladies, it still feels a little professional between them, most of their conversation getting dominated by Avengers business.

 

At least once or twice a week during the season, he and Tony have gotten in the habit of grabbing breakfast or dinner just the two of them, or meeting up in the city for whatever reason they can come up with that would be improved by some company. A lot of the time, it’s Steve tagging along with Tony when he decides to go shopping for clothes, hardware materials, or art for his apartment. Steve introduced him to one of his favorite flea markets, and any time they’re lucky enough to not have a morning weekend game scheduled, they get up early to peruse all the artisans’ wares. Steve even lets Tony give his input towards records or movies that seem interesting to him. Without fail, Steve usually ends up walking out with vinyls and VHS tapes he would normally have no intent on buying. A lot of it is a bit beyond the genres he would normally associate himself with, but there’s something kind of endearing about Tony’s odd, eclectic taste being juxtaposed into his life.

 

Tony has always been the kind of player who takes his frustration and produces positive results. Any critiques usually bounce right off his impervious exterior, but Steve can’t help but notice from his shortstop position how Tony’s posture is a little more stiff today, the normal jitters that have his hands and feet constantly in motion now quelled. The first batter from the Fisher Cats steps up to plate and Steve almost pities the guy. Almost. Three pitches, three strikes, and he’s out. Not a great start for the visiting team, but their own fans are screaming out their approval, the commentators sure to be hailing Tony’s opening display of dominance on the field.

 

Steve and the rest of the team don’t have that much to do in the first couple of innings as far as defense goes. Tony’s pitches are aggressive, leaving absolutely no room for mistakes. The furthest one of their opponents runners can get is to second base before they’re either tagged out by Steve or their teammate at bat is struck out by Tony.

 

They’re up 3-0 by the fourth inning when there is a sudden whistle blown, right as Tony is in his wind-up. He falters, still releasing the ball which goes off kilter, bouncing off the batter’s helmet. Steve is puzzled as Natasha runs out onto the field, waving over one of the refs. She’s holding her clipboard up to block her face from any cameras. Several minutes of halted play pass. The stadium is restlessly quiet, their outfielders moving closer to call to the infield for some kind of explanation as to what’s going on. Steve gives a shrug, glancing between Quill on second and Clint on third only to earn equally clueless looks.

 

There are some shouts from the viewers in the stands, and even the other team’s coach angrily storms over, throwing his hands in the air. Natasha completely ignores him, still locked in what appears to be a heated discussion with one of the refs. Finally, she walks away from him, mouth pressed in a tight line as she motions to the dugout. Strange is suddenly jogging out to the field, with Janet of all people tailing behind him.

 

Tony looks just as confused as the rest of them, and even though Steve can’t hear what he’s saying to their manager, he can tell it’s all protest. Strange gives a helpless shrug as he steps onto the pitcher’s mound, Steve watching as Janet gently takes Tony by the elbow and begins to lead him off the field, keeping her head down as they go. Tony shoots a quick glance over his shoulder at Steve, but he barely gets a glimpse of him before the whistle is being blown again, signaling play to resume.

 

Steve is on deck when it’s time for the bottom half of the inning, but even as he peers back into their dugout from his designated spot near the sidelines, he can’t spot Tony’s familiar head amongst the rest of his players. He’s distracted when it’s his turn at bat, luckily getting a walk to first. The pity base doesn’t last long for him when the very next play ends in the Fisher Cat’s second baseman tagging him out.

 

Steve thoroughly scans the dugout when he returns to it, coming to the conclusion that Tony is nowhere to be found. He chews on the inside of his cheek in contemplation, glancing up to where Natasha is standing with her jaw clamped tight, lips pressed tightly together. Never has Natasha Romanoff ever shown nervousness before, but he imagines that he’s witnessing it for the first time as she stands there, arms crossed, heel tapping against the ground. Steve toys with the idea of prying into whatever is going on that caused Tony to get subbed out mid-play, but decides against incurring her wrath on the matter. At least for now.

 

Strange definitely pitches less aggressively than Tony had been, but they still manage to pull a win for the first game. Natasha already informed him that he’d only be playing in the first game and that Williams is going to sub into his position for the second, so he hits the showers during that 30 minute break period. He wanders around the locker room after changing into sweatpants and a Manhattan Avengers sweatshirt, but there’s still no sign of Tony. He opens the pitcher’s locker curiously, peeking inside to see that nothing had been touched.

 

Tony hates leaving the stadium in uniform. Steve remembers the disdain on his face as he talked about it one day, making his opinion clear on how he wouldn’t be caught dead walking around in public repping his team like a Boy Scout looking for attention.

 

He had left in a hurry. That, or Janet had forced him to. The locker room feels odd in a way, and if Steve hadn’t been so preoccupied with the fact that it must be Tony’s absence, he might realize that none of the TVs are on as they normally were, running some kind of news cycle or sports coverage on low volume.

 

Steve stands at the sidelines with Natasha, assisting in her duties to be third-base coach, something not really practiced much in the minors, but it never hurt to have the added assistance during Spring Training. Steve doesn’t try and strike up conversation, her green eyes like steel for the entire duration of the second-half of their double-header.

 

They end up losing, but it’s still a game well played, Steve giving his respects to the other team as they go down the line and shake hands. He gives Williams a pat on the back, letting him know what a fantastic job he did as shortstop as he follows the rest of the team back into the locker room.

 

Natasha stands In front of the exit door to the locker room, finding a chair to stand on to make sure she’s heard. “Alright everyone, gather round. You guys made plenty of mistakes out there today, but now’s not the time to get on your case about it.”

 

Steve straightens up curiously, wondering if she’s going to elaborate on exactly why she’s forgoing the usual spiel of berating their less-than-perfect performances.

 

Natasha waits until the room is fully silent, but it feels less like it’s for dramatic effect and more that she’s dead set on making sure everyone gets their jokes and offhand comments out of the way before she speaks again. The entire team is looking expectantly to their coach, Nat’s face grim. She takes a visibly deep breath. “I just want to tell you all here and now before you hear it on the radio on the way home, or see it on the news… but Howard and Maria Stark died earlier this afternoon.”

 

Steve feels ice in his veins, hair raising on the back of his neck in alarm. There’s a moment that he wants to believe their coach is joking, but she would never kid about something like this. The room is deathly silent, shock evident across every Avengers’ face, none of them knowing what to possibly say in that moment.

 

“We don’t know anything other than they were overseas for business and it appears to be some sort of car accident. Obviously Tony will need some time to grieve so you may not be seeing him for a while. We should all do our best to be supportive to him, whenever he’s ready. That's all,” she climbs down from the chair and quickly leaves the room without another word.

 

The team is still absolutely silent, no one quite ready to break it, but also not knowing how to continue operating under it. Some soft murmuring starts up as the players gather their things and get ready to go home. Steve stays rooted to one spot, staring at the wall.

 

Howard and Maria Stark. _Dead_. Tony’s parents. It can’t be true. But it is.

 

Tony. He has to go to Tony.

 

“Steve?” He can hear Rhodey’s voice but it sounds like it’s miles away. A shake to his shoulder. Steve brushes it off and immediately heads to the door. Before he realizes it he’s running, sprinting out of the stadium. The unassuming clouds that have filled the sky all day are suddenly dark with rain, droplets splattering against his face as he runs through the parking lot. It starts to pour once he makes it into the safety of his car. He sits, hunched forward as he squints through the sheets pouring down over his windshield. The shitty wipers only able to clear the way for a second before his vision is obscured again, Steve barely able to make out the hazy circles of headlights and people-shaped blobs that he has to stop for.

 

Parking around Tony’s complex is a nightmare, Steve rolling down his window to get a better view as he drives by the front door. There’s already a swath of reporters outside, undeterred by the rain, covered in shiny plastic ponchos to try and preserve themselves. Steve turns at the next corner and scans the streets, having to park two blocks away.

 

His clothes are completely soaked through by the time he makes it back to Tony’s building, pushing his way past the reporters. Security has come out now to try and wave them off, and they almost stop Steve from entering until one of them recognizes him and allows him through. Unfortunately, this isn’t until after the reporters caught on to exactly who he was, camera flashes going off as the herd of them call out his name.

 

Steve is getting odd looks from residents of the complex as he comes in, dripping puddles on the floor. He’s out of breath by the time he makes it to the receptionist desk, the young lady behind it smiling politely if not a little nervously.

 

“Tony… Stark…” Steve pants. “Is he… in? My name’s… Steve… Steve Rogers…”

 

“I apologize, Mr. Rogers, but we were instructed not to let visitors up to Mr. Stark’s penthouse,” she practically mumbles.

 

“I need… to see him…” Steve takes a moment to catch his breath, pushing his wet hair back from his face to prevent anymore droplets from rolling into his eyes. “He’s home though?”

 

The girl bites her lip. “I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to— Hey, wait! Sir!”

 

Steve makes his way over to the elevators, jamming the button for the penthouse suite. Security is too busy trying to tame the media outside that no one is around to stop him from boarding.

 

The crawl to the top floor is agonizing, Steve shivering slightly as he waits for the doors to open. He walks down the short hallway where Tony’s lone door resides at the end, fist coming up to pound on it heavily. “Tony!” He yells hoarsely. No response. He pounds harder now, hearing the sound reverberate through the apartment on the other side of the heavy door. “Tony, it’s Steve. Please let me in. You shouldn’t be alone right now… _Tony_!”

 

When security shows up minutes later to escort him out of the building, Steve is still beating uselessly at the unresponsive door with both hands, his forehead pressed against it as he calls out Tony’s name. Steve doesn’t fight it as they apologize and tell him he’ll have to leave the premises, letting them escort him back to the elevator.

 

He dejectedly leaves the building, the media now scattered down the street but still lying in wait. Steve shoves past the group of them that resurge to try and get some kind of quote, squinting through the rain as he jogs back to his car to escape them.

 

When he gets home he immediately goes to his phone, fit's dialing Tony’s cell. The line is disconnected, an automated voice telling him the person he's trying to reach is not currently accepting calls. He tries Tony’s home phone. Same issue. He doesn't even have Tony’s email address, otherwise he would go to the library right now and try and contact him that way. He mulls over the idea of trying to send Tony a letter, but realizes that even if Tony’s home to receive it, he’ll probably just laugh at the fact that Steve tried to reach him with such primitive messaging and throw it in the garbage.

 

He sinks down into his armchair and turns the TV on, flicking through the news channels for any kind of coverage. Maria and Howard’s faces appear on his screen, with the occasional photo of Tony making its way into the mix. They don’t have anymore information beyond what Natasha had told them currently, but Steve leaves it on for the rest of the night in hope of hearing some kind of update.

 

For the next couple of weeks, Steve is glued to the news cycle. He actually listens to the radio in his car on the way to and from the stadium, leaves his TV on in the background while at home hoping to hear something of Tony’s whereabouts. No one seems to have a clue, most of them stating he has not been spotted in New York or California, but that they’ve heard he’s back in Malibu making arrangements for the funeral and memorial services. Natasha tells him Fury will be flying out and that there’s a ticket for him if he wants it. It doesn’t feel like his place. He wants to support Tony, but he had only met Howard twice and Maria once. It wouldn’t feel right to go, and he wasn’t sure if he could handle the rejection if he showed up and Tony didn’t want him there.

 

The Avengers instill a moment of silence at the start of all their exhibition games to honor the late Starks as well as their pitcher missing-in-action. Steve asks Rhodey and Bruce if they’ve been able to get ahold of Tony, but they haven’t been able to reach him either.

 

The funeral is small and private, but of course the media ignores those boundaries and manages to snap a few pictures outside the graveyard. Steve snatches a magazine up off the newsstand outside his apartment when he catches a glimpse of Tony on the cover. He’s wearing a completely black suit and is being ushered into the back of a car outside of a cemetery, sunglasses shrouding his eyes. Steve recognizes the church in the background as one in New York, but a quick glance through the poorly written article informs him that he just came back to the city to bury his parents, and was immediately taken back to the airport to return to California.

 

There’s a more public memorial service held in Malibu, approved media coverage airing on ESPN as it’s a special gathering of influential individuals from the baseball world who go to pay their respects. Tony himself does not attend, all of the speakers offering their condolences to the last remaining Stark.

 

Steve isn’t surprised by Tony’s absence. While it’s supposedly for both of his parents, it’s quite clear it centers around Howard, everyone there focusing on all his accomplishments for the greatest sport in America. Maria is mentioned mostly as an afterthought. Steve only really tunes in when it’s Peggy who takes to the podium to speak.

 

_“Howard has been one of my dearest and oldest friends. We’ve known each other since University. We absolutely despised each other at first, but I suppose he had that effect on people,” she takes a break to laugh, an amused agreement rising up from the crowd. “I remember calming him down as he panicked over how he was going to propose to Maria. I remember their wedding like it was yesterday. As extravagant as the two of them were, it was very small, very intimate. I’ve never seen a woman look more beautiful than Maria had in her wedding dress, and I’ve also never seen Howard look so happy. It was just a year or so later when I was there in the delivery room as Maria brought their son Anthony into the world—” Peggy has to take a moment, tears shining in her eyes with a hand delicately covering her mouth. She takes a moment to step away from the microphone, the cameras cutting to the audience who are clearly wrought with empathy. She steps back up to the podium, standing with her hands braced on either side of it and chin raised, defiantly strong against the stream of tears rolling down her cheeks. Her voice wavers with the effort, lower lip trembling as she fights through her address. “The things Howard and Maria have accomplished in their lifespans are immeasurable. One could only hope to lead a life as impactful as theirs. I encourage all of you to honor their memory by looking to the future. A brighter future that they wanted to mold not only for their son, but for the rest of the world. Tony unfortunately isn’t with us today, but he will hear our words. And I want him to know that— know that his— his Aunt Peggy l-loves him… So dearly. And that she will be here for him even though his mother can’t be.” She quickly steps down from the podium and hurries off the stage, not even waiting for the polite but unsure applause._

 

Steve mutes the TV again once the next speaker steps up, realizing his own cheeks are wet with tears. He had been so preoccupied with thinking about Tony that he hadn’t even reached out to Peggy or thought about how she has lost family too.

 

As reports surrounding the tragedy begin to die down over the following days, Steve has to work a little harder to try and dig up exactly what Tony has been up to. He hasn't appeared before any outlets or issued a single public statement, but it does come out that while he’s keeping their family home, there is an estate sale for most of their assets. Paintings, furniture, family heirlooms- really anything not technically owned by Stark Industries- will be auctioned off with 100% of the proceeds going to the various foundations Maria had started. The numbers aren’t definite, but while the world grieves for the loss of a baseball legend, Tony very quietly raises hundreds of millions of dollars for youth homeless shelters, education for special needs children, victims of domestic and sexual violence, AIDs funds around the world, and so much more. Steve himself makes a note of all of Maria Stark’s charitable endeavors and gives a notice to Janet to disburse a portion of his income from the year to those donation centers.

 

Inclement weather cancels their first two games of the season, pushing them over into the second week of April. It’s a home game, the field still moist from that morning’s downpour, but the sun’s rays begin to peek through the distant storm clouds, and it looks like they’ll finally be starting the season.

 

Steve lines up with his players, removing his cap for the National Anthem and then bowing his head for the following moment of silence. He catches a bit of motion out of his periphery, glancing over only to be shell-shocked.

 

Not an apparition as he initially thought, a flesh-and-blood Tony is standing next to him at the end of the line. He’s out of uniform, but still in his training kit that most players wear when they attend games but aren’t slated to get off the bench.

 

When the moment ends and the whistle blows for the game to start, the rest of their team realizes the new arrival as well. Most of them hesitate the same way Steve had, unsure of how to behave when he showed up out of the blue like this. Rhodes comes down the line immediately, throwing his arms around Tony in a tight hug. Steve watches as one of the camera operators notices Tony’s unexpected arrival as well, the big screen immediately shifting to the live feed of Rhodes and Tony locked in embrace, Tony’s face schooled into a mask of indifference.

 

“I’m good, I’m good,” Steve hears Tony mumble against Rhodey's shoulder. Steve still stands, frozen in one spot as players move around him to give Tony hugs or comforting pats on the shoulders. Their pitcher nods at their commiseration, expression still giving nothing away. Natasha stands off to the side with arms crossed and lips pressed in a tight line, Steve the last player not having retreated to the dugout.

 

“What are you doing here?” He blurts out. “I-I didn’t realize you were back in town. I figured you would…” His shoulders sag and he steps closer to Tony, a hand outstretched in the space between them without quite touching him yet. “No one would blame you if you need more time, Tony. It’s only been a few weeks—”

 

Tony reaches up and clasps Steve’s wrist, giving a small squeeze before dropping his hand. “Tasha might not be letting me play, but I wasn’t going to miss the first game of the season,” he responds flatly, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “I’m fine,” he assures Steve before heading into the dugout. Natasha captures him in a hug before he goes, a whispered exchange between them before she ruffles his hair and pushes him off to the bench.

 

“You know, I’m getting kind of sick of all the secrets here, Nat,” Steve can’t help but snap at her in irritation, emotions still all mixed up with Tony’s abrupt appearance. “Seriously, why do you bother to tell me anything anymore?”

 

“He showed up at the stadium this morning,” Natasha explains evenly, clearly not put off by Steve’s huffing and puffing when it came to Tony at this point. “I was just as surprised as you. He came in insisting he could pitch today but I told him no, and that he could watch from the private box if he wanted to support the team. Leave it to him to want a more dramatic entrance than that. Now get on the field, you’re making everyone wait.”

 

Steve reluctantly tries to keep his focus but is distracted from his position as shortstop, eyes constantly flickering over to where Tony is sitting in the dugout. Rhodes is on the field with him, but Bruce has yet to go up and is sitting quietly in the corner with Tony. The two seem to be holding some conversation, but more often than not, Steve finds that Tony’s eyes are trained on the field and sometimes even directly zeroed in on him.

 

They win their first game by the skin of their teeth and Steve ends up playing all nine innings. He stays on the field even during his downtime during the batting order, knowing if he tries to speak to Tony now that he’ll only be more distracted once stepping back onto the field. He’s sweaty and covered in mud and grass stains, the damp ground unkind to his white uniform. Despite this, he tries to make his shower quick in the hopes of catching Tony before he leaves, but he never even sees him come through the locker room. It didn’t really make sense for him to do so considering he hadn’t played.

 

Steve rushes out of the stadium to try and spot Tony’s car in the lot, but there’s no recognizable luxury vehicles in sight. Posture sagging in defeat, Steve trudges down towards his old beater at the end of the row, surprised when a familiar pair of bright red high tops catches his eye as he approaches. Picking up the pace, Steve can see the rest of the body attached, Tony casually sitting on the hood of his old Ford Pinto.

 

“Took you long enough. What were you doing in there, shaving your legs?”

 

The banter feels like welcome amnesty, Steve almost having forgotten Tony’s bright and youthful rasp with all of the grief surrounding the last couple of weeks. He’s still wearing the grey and blue Avengers track pants but the jacket has migrated to being tied around his waist, a simple white t-shirt still clinging to his torso.

 

Steve instinctively wants to ask him how he’s feeling, if he’s been doing okay, but he knows that Tony’s probably heard enough of that lately. Tony hadn’t gone home after the game, he had left the stadium and plonked himself right onto the hood of Steve’s car to patiently wait for him, just like he had so many times in the past after a game.

 

Steve walks past him and opens up the driver’s side door, throwing his duffel bag into the back. “Lucky Blue Dragon?”

 

“Hell yeah,” Tony agreed, immediately sliding off the hood and hopping into the passenger seat.

 

They drove out to their favorite restaurant, a little Chinese place that’s equal walking distance between both of their apartments. They’re recognized by the entire staff at this point, as a pair of regulars rather than famous ball players. They’re greeted in the usual fashion of being seized by the tiny Asian woman who simply asks to be called ‘Miss Sun’, accepting kisses on both cheeks as she pulls them down to her level.

 

She dotes over Tony especially, stroking his face and hair. “You’re not looking so good, that’s not a happy face. Must not be eating good enough food but we fix that today,” she tuts, then turns on Steve with a scolding finger. “Make sure he keeps eating, Handsome. You need to take care of him.”

 

Steve smiles warmly at her, glancing over at Tony’s who’s looking mortally embarrassed. “Will do.”

 

She ushers them to their usual two-person table in the corner, lanterns of different shapes and sizes hanging down over them. “Do you boys need menus or you’ll be having the usual?”

 

Steve and Tony exchange a quick look. “The usual, please,” Steve confirms.

 

“I’ll get the order in. Be right back with water and tea,” she smiles at them before disappearing into the kitchen.

 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, not having exchanged a word by the time Miss Sun comes back with their drinks. Tony pours tea into his cup, absently running a finger around the rim of it without taking a sip or looking up at Steve.

 

“Have you been holding up okay?” Steve finally asks, brow drawn down with concern.

 

Tony’s dark eyes flit up to him, his mouth screwing up to one side as he considers his answer. His fingers are restless, still tapping against the tea cup. “I didn’t cry at the funeral.”

 

It’s a cryptic answer, one Steve isn’t expecting. “That can be normal,” he hedges. “Is there any reason you didn’t go to the memorial service?”

 

Tony’s gaze sharpens, nose wrinkling as he frowns. “Didn’t really want to listen to people praise my abusive dickhead of a father all day. Any reason you didn’t go? You’re the son he always wanted, you had way more of a right to be there than I did.”

 

Steve isn’t expecting the question to be turned on him, and he certainly isn’t expecting the old hostility Tony once had against him to rear its head. “Just because you think he saw me like that doesn’t mean I felt the same about him, Tony,” he reminds. “...Besides, I didn’t go because I had nothing nice to say about the man.”

 

Tony seems perturbed yet pleased by Steve’s response, a rueful smile crossing his face for a moment before quickly fading. “Did you cry? At your mother’s funeral?”

 

For once Steve doesn’t mind the deflection, even if it brings up sorrowful memories. It felt like so long ago that it happened, Steve almost can’t remember all the details, trying to pick apart the haze of his memory. “I did… Have you not cried at all?”

 

Tony shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I have. A lot, actually, just not at the right times I guess. I didn’t when I first got the news... Took me a while to process it I think. Didn’t really hit until I was on the plane to Vienna to—” he swallows. “Identify the bodies.”

 

“I’m so sorry, Tony,” Steve whispers. “I know you’ve probably heard that a million times but… I’m just sorry you’re having to go through this. It’s not fair.”

 

Tony nods stiffly and Steve can see the telltale twitch of his brow and mouth that he’s fighting back tears. “Fuck,” Tony sighs in exasperation, tilting his head back and blinking furiously at the ceiling. “This is what I mean. The most random things will just… I don’t know. Hit me. And then I start bawling like a damn baby,” he wipes quickly at his eyes, ridding himself of the tears gathering threateningly at the corners. “Didn’t shed a tear until I got back to California and Peggy came to the house to help me get everything in order. As soon as she walked in and hugged me I was done for,” he laughs weakly.

 

“Grief is strange like that,” Steve agrees. He contemplates bringing up that he thought Tony was handling everything very maturely and a lot more put-together than most people would be in his situation, but he decides to keep those thoughts to himself. It’s probably the last thing Tony wants to hear after a life of growing up too fast and having so much expected of him.

 

“Do you think Nat will let me play in the next game?” Tony asks, Steve thinking that he almost sounds childishly hopeful about it.

 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t think she was expecting you back so soon. We have Strange and Elritch to fall back on at least.” Tony looks annoyed by this, taking a sip of his tea. “You don’t have to launch yourself back into things, Tony. It’s okay for you to take some time off.”

 

He shakes his head. “I missed enough of the exhibition games, I don’t want to miss actual league play.” The kitchen doors swing open, Miss Sun and an additional waiter bringing out their plates of fried rice, crab rangoons, dumplings, and sweet and sour chicken. It’s all laid out in front of them, Miss Sun giving Tony a gentle, fond pinch on the cheek before wishing them a good meal. “Besides,” he continues. “This is the season we’re going to go all the way to the Championship to crush the Irons.” He stabs his chopsticks straight through a wanton to emphasize his point, rattling the porcelain dishes on the table. He pops it into his mouth, grinning around his cheekful of cream cheese and fried dough. “And the Avengers are gonna need their star pitcher to do it.”

 

Steve sighs, scooping some chicken and fried rice onto his plate. “Good to see you back to normal so soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh my god. This is so bad. I can’t watch, but I also can’t look away,” Quill covers his face with his hands, peeking between his fingers. “It’s like seeing a car crash on the side of the freeway.”

 

“This is worse than practice,” Strange agrees, mouth hanging open in horrified awe. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

 

“Cut it out,” Steve scolds, arms crossed as he watches the play unfold in front of him. “You guys are being dramatic. I’m sure he’s just getting warmed up—”

 

_“Ball Four! Walk!”_

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Steve sighs under his breath, watching as one of Rochester’s batters advances to first, looking just as confused as the rest of the stadium was. He strides towards their coach. “Did Tony just give a _walk_? His _first ever_ walk?”

 

“Yes,” Natasha begrudges, looking like she’s going to snap her clipboard in half. “I knew he wasn’t ready to go back in yet. I don’t think he’s going to last more than an inning. I have to sub Strange in.”

 

“Just wait,” Steve says, catching her by the elbow. “Give him a chance, maybe he’s just rusty.”

 

Natasha turns her stone-cold gaze on him. “That’s what you said at practice.”

 

Steve can’t fault her for that. Since Tony showed back up, his performance hasn’t been great. It hasn’t been _awful_ either, but in comparison to the usually technically perfect pitches they’re used to, seeing his skills waver so drastically has been a shock. Natasha insisted he wait another week at the very least, Tony complaining from the dugout every game as he watched the other two Avengers pitchers take his place. Meanwhile, he struggles through every practice as if he’s never handled a baseball before in his life. Steve and Natasha stay an extra two hours after practice just to make sure Tony doesn’t work himself into the ground, forcing him to leave the stadium and go home.

 

“Call a timeout, I need to talk to him.”

 

Natasha sighs deeply. “Steve, don’t waste your breath.”

 

“One minute, that’s all I need,” Steve looks her in the eye. “Please.”

 

Her face screws up in annoyance and she shakes his hand off her arm. “Fine.” Tony finishes pitching to the next batter who ends up getting a single. Natasha signals to the ref for a timeout, the whistle blowing. “Sixty seconds, Rogers,” she grumbles.

 

Tony is already walking over to the sidelines, well aware he’s the reason for the time out call. Steve reaches out and clasps a hand on his shoulder, giving a slight squeeze. “What’s going on, Tony? I know you wanted to play and you hate hearing this, but I think your performance speaks for itself,” he’s keeping his tone even and diplomatic, sensitive to the unmeasurable weight bearing down on Tony’s shoulders. “Do we need to pull you?”

 

“No,” Tony denies, soft but insistent. He wipes some sweat from his brow, hands trembling slightly. “I don’t know what’s going on but I can do this, okay? I _need_ to do this.”

 

“Tony…” Steve sighs. “You don’t have to throw yourself back into it because you think it’s what people want from you. What you need is important too. Your parents _just_ passed, I think you should take a step back—"

 

“Hey!” Rhodes calls from behind them, climbing out of the dugout and striding over to them. “What the hell was that, man?”

 

Tony glares moodily at him. “What the hell was what? I’m just having an off day.”

 

“No, you’re not _thinking_ ,” Rhodes corrects, arms crossed. “And it shows. You’re just out there throwing what you think is a good pitch.”

 

“Oh, so now you got a problem with the way I pitch?” Tony asks, raising his voice. Steve tries to calm him again, but his hand is shrugged off.

 

“Your technicality isn’t what I’m calling into question. You’re playing like any average pitcher, instead of playing like _you_. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but you need to get whatever it is out and stop _under_ thinking.”

 

Steve takes a step back to let Rhodes in on what is  quickly turning into a huddle as Natasha comes over as well. “Your sixty seconds are up. Get back out there, Stark. If you don’t get your shit together in the next inning, you’re done.”

 

Tony levels a glare at all three of them, it settling on Rhodey last. “I know how to pitch,” he spits in annoyance before storming back to the mound.

 

“As long as you’re using your brain!” Rhodey calls out after him. He glances Steve’s direction raising an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Steve says reflexively, brow knit in confusion. “You were a little hard on him, don’t you think? I don’t think yelling at him is going to do much.”

 

Rhodes gets an amused look on his face like he’s seeing something Steve isn’t. “That’s where you’re wrong, Cap. You were being too soft on him. You of all people know by this point that Tony doesn’t really take to gentle persuasion— You gotta question his skill to get him riled up enough to do something about it.”

 

The other man is right, but Steve still didn’t feel right berating one of his players when they weren’t doing well. He adjusts his critiquing methods to the players, but Tony was unlike anyone Steve had ever played with. “His parents just died, I was trying to go easy on him…”

 

“And that’s a reasonable reaction to have, but you and I can both see Tony’s not himself right now, on or off the field. I mean, he doesn’t even _like_ baseball, but here he is showing up early and staying late for practices, insisting just two weeks after his parents died in a horrific accident that he needs to play again… His coping methods clearly aren’t normal,” Rhodes sighs, staring out alongside Steve as they watch Tony pitch to the next player. There’s still something off, his posture much more stiff than usual, his decisions seeming erratic, but he manages to strike them out. Something about what Rhodey said to him must be getting through one way or another. “I know you have a soft spot for him, but what he needs right now is a reality check from his friends, not coddling from his teammates.”

 

Rhodey leaves Steve’s side to continue to watch from the dugout. Rochester gets two more runs in before Tony strikes out their third player and they swap positions. Natasha lets Tony struggle through three more innings before pulling him off the field and sending Strange in to take his place. Steve doesn’t get the chance to re-evaluate his pep talk, Natasha sending him in as well.

 

Despite the rocky middle portion of the game, they end up winning against Rochester, their winning streak thus far continuing. Their prospects have only been increasing since the last couple of seasons, and they’re slowly but surely solidifying themselves as a fan favorite in the league once more. It’s still early on in the season, but the fact that they haven’t lost a game yet has all of them in high spirits.

 

Tony sits with Bruce on the bus ride home, again denying Steve the opportunity to get some one-on-one time with him. He sits with the newest addition to their team instead— T’Challa, who they formerly played alongside in the All-Star game. He’s an excellent first baseman and Steve can already see the incredible potential he has to make a great Captain if he ever desired the position, despite being so new to the team. Retirement is never on the forefront of Steve’s mind, but he’s getting up there in terms of age— almost _officially_ in his mid-thirties, as Bucky who’s one year and four months older loves to remind him. He can’t imagine stopping anytime soon, but maybe he should start lining his ducks up just in case his knee injury decides to flare back up and take him out of commission sooner rather than later.

 

The next day’s practice gets rained out, but Steve had already planned on heading to the Stadium gym to work out his knee. Dr. Cho has been staying on top of him about his ACL, making sure he was still working it out regularly to build the strength back up while also taking the appropriate breaks from overuse.

 

A cherry red Acura NSX sitting in the nearly empty parking lot isn’t quite what he expects to see when showing up, and it’s obvious that someone else had the same idea to come and practice despite the inclement weather. It’s slowed to a drizzle at this point, but had been alternating between a mist and a downpour all morning.

 

Surprisingly enough, Tony isn’t in the gym or locker room when Steve heads inside to look for him, and he can’t seem to find any sign of life anywhere else in the stadium save for the occasional janitor or two passing him by. Which leaves one place Tony can be.

 

Pulling the hood of his raincoat up to shield his face from the rain, Steve hurries out onto the field. The rain has picked back up with the wind, droplets slanted sideways and splattering loudly against any surface it comes into contact with. “Tony!” He shouts over the rain and the howling winds, his voice drowned out as he approaches the pitcher.

 

Tony’s back is to him, facing the back wall of the stadium. There are hundreds of baseballs littering the ground, a thinning pile next to him. Steve watches as he picks up ball after ball, winding up and throwing a pitch at a small square outlined in duct tape on the wall.

 

“Tony!” He shouts again as he’s only a few yards away, now close enough for Tony to hear. The pitcher glances over his shoulder, doing a double-take when he realizes the voice isn’t just his imagination. _‘Steve?’_ He can see Tony’s mouth shape the word as he squints through the sheet of rain pouring down. He’s soaking wet, dark hair slicked down over his forehead and clothes clinging to his form.

 

He jogs the last few feet over to him, grabbing him by the shoulders. “What are you doing out here? You’re going to catch pneumonia! Come on,” he scolds, tugging on Tony to follow him.

 

The younger man digs his feet into the softened grass, wriggling out of his grip. “I’ll be fine, Steve, it’ll let up in a couple of minutes.” He rolls his eyes and crouches down to pick up another ball, taking his stance once more. As he brings his arm back before the snap, Steve catches him by the wrist, giving it a painless twist to force him to drop the ball. “Hey!” Tony objects, face set stubbornly as Steve pulls him closer by his hand. It’s upon closer inspection that he can see faint rust-colored lines cascading from his fingertips down to his wrists. The rain has been steadily washing it away, but Steve can see the evidence on both of his hands that Tony’s fingertips are worn raw and bleeding.

 

“Are you insane?” Steve snaps at him. “Look at your hands, Tony— _Look_!” He yanks both of Tony’s wrists up, forcing them in front of his face. Tony jerks his chin away, jaw clenched in anger. Raindrops are clinging to his eyelashes, Tony furiously blinking them away as he avoids Steve’s gaze. It’s only when Tony goes slack in his hold, slumping against Steve’s front as he drops down to his knees, that he realizes Tony is crying.

 

His body shakes with sobs, Steve kneeling down to better support him. He can hear Tony’s heaving gasps as he gets an arm around his waist, lifting him up and helping him off the field. Tony’s limply fighting him, legs dragging uselessly along as Steve has to switch their positions to instead get his arms underneath Tony’s, hoisting him up by his armpits as he hauls him out of the rain.

 

“Tony you’re freezing,” he sighs at the shivering mess of a man in his arms, gently depositing him on the tiled floor once they get to the showers. He cranks up the hot water, angling the showerhead so that it’s pointed towards Tony who’s leaned up against the wall. Steve’s rain jacket had already been abandoned in the locker room, but his under layers are still just as wet as Tony’s. With nothing left to lose and Tony still a crying heap on the floor, Steve sits down in front of him, the spray hitting the back of his neck and cascading down to wet whatever surface of him that had previously remained dry.

 

He sees a brief moment of confusion flicker across Tony’s face as he leans over him, reaching out to scoop the smaller man into his arms. Tony buries his face in Steve’s chest, frame still trembling as the steam rises up around them and slowly warms the pair up. Tony’s fingers feel like icicles as they curl against Steve’s back, hugging him closer as his sobs begin to slow and his breathing returns to normal. They stay like that for an immeasurable amount of time, Steve letting his head rest against the top of Tony’s, eyes closed as the scalding water continues to run down his face and body.

 

Once it feels like Tony won’t totally fall apart if he’s released, Steve gently pries himself free of Tony’s hold, still holding his arms and rubbing over them for a moment to make sure he felt like an appropriate human temperature. “We need to get you out of those clothes.”

 

With a surprising lack of sexual comments, Tony simply nods and gets to his feet, pulling the shirt off over his head before his hands drop to his pants. Steve’s eyes gravitate towards the dark line of hair from the bottom of his navel that disappears under the waistband of black underwear, quickly darting away once Tony gets the top button undone. He has the decency to turn around, stripping out of his own sopping clothes before he turns back to Tony, holding an arm out while keeping his gaze purposefully high. Tony wordlessly hands his own clothes over, turning his back to Steve as he steps back underneath the shower’s spray to warm himself up.

 

Steve hangs all their wet clothes and goes to their lockers. Tony doesn’t have a spare set of clothes in his, but luckily Steve came prepared. He changes into his own clothes before pulling out a set of sweats for Tony as well. He leaves them folded and sitting on one of the shelves in the showers, quickly checking to make sure Tony is still standing.

 

It’s another ten minutes or so before Steve hears the water turn off in the other room, an additional five before Tony walks in wearing Steve’s clothes, hair still dripping slightly. Steve can’t help but think how much he looks his age again, swimming in clothes three sizes too big, tired eyes and runny nose tinged red. He stands up and walks over, taking the towel loosely held in Tony’s hand and lifting it to dry off his hair a little. Tony is still in danger of getting sick from the stunt he pulled, and walking around with a wet head was just asking for a cold at this point. Steve could remember his mother doing the same when he was young if she decided his hair drying wasn’t efficient— and that was only if she let him go outside in the first place.

 

Tony’s looking at him from under the towel, big brown eyes peeking out from beneath the rough white cloth. Steve’s hands run over his scalp until he decides Tony’s hair is sufficiently dried. The towel is pulled out from his grasp, Tony tugging on the end until it slips off his shoulders and lands on the floor with a wet-sounding thud. Steve’s hands hover awkwardly for a moment, in a position of almost cradling Tony’s face. He drops them to rest on the shorter man’s shoulders, not realizing how close their bodies were, chests almost touching. Tony’s whiskey-warm gaze is honed in on Steve’s face, something challenging there. His heart beat inexplicably speeds up as Tony sways forward, firmly locked in intentional eye contact. Steve feels his arms reflexively stiffen, stopping Tony in his tracks before he can do anything too rash. Before his dry mouth can try and form a stuttered apology, Tony moves away from him, seemingly unbothered by the rebuff. He has a small, exhausted smile on his face, almost like he had expected it.

 

Tony slumps down onto the bench, shoulders heaving in a sigh as he stares down at his hands. He flexes each finger, one by one, Steve seeing the worn skin there as well as a torn nail or two. He’s not actively bleeding anymore, but Steve can see redness welling up against the surface of his skin. He quickly retrieves the first aid kit and gets to work, both of them straddling the bench to face each other. Steve is grateful he’s allowed to focus on Tony’s hands rather than meet that provokingly heart-rate-increasing stare again.

 

“They want me back on the Irons.”

 

Steve’s movement stills, Tony’s quiet admission setting him on edge. “What? They who?”

 

“Obie. Investors. The board. The press. Fans,” Tony clarifies before swallowing thickly. “And Howard.”

 

Steve wraps bandages around Tony’s fingers and palms, layering the gauze without pulling too tight. “Why?” He asks, trying not to come across as too defensive.

 

“Because he up and died, that’s why,” Tony flinches slightly as Steve starts to bandage his more sensitive fingers, earning a muttered apology from the makeshift nurse before he continues. “People want me to go back for some kind of, I don’t know, narrative justice? Contracts be damned, whatever sells tickets and gets asses in seats right?” Tony scoffs, shaking his head in disgust.

 

Steve is quiet for a long moment. Tony hasn’t really made it clear whether or not he would be going, which makes his stomach lurch uncomfortably. “And what does Pepper think you should do?” Steve knows Tony well enough to know that there isn’t anyone with opinions he puts any stock into aside from that woman. “And Janet and Natasha?”

 

“Janet, of course, is fighting to keep me but said she wouldn’t fault me if I left. And with the way I’ve been playing, at this point Nat would be happy to see me gone,” he chuckles, bringing a smile to Steve’s face as well. “And Pep… Well, she thinks it would be great for me PR-wise. People would see it as honorable, or whatever, especially if we come out and say my dad had mentioned in his will he wanted to see me back in the red and gold and inherit the team one day.”

 

Steve loops the bandages down to his wrists, taking his time with securely fastening them there. “What does she think not PR-wise?”

 

“...She wants me to do whatever I think is right.”

 

Steve can’t stop his smirk. “Big mistake.”

 

“I know, right?”

 

They glance back up at each other then, sharing in a laugh that soon turns into a fit of giggles. Their laughter eventually tapers off, echoing slightly around the tile and cement block chamber. Tony looks down at his bandaged hand, flexing his digits experimentally.

 

“What do you think I should do?”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Are you asking me seriously?”

 

Tony shrugs in defeat. “I'm sort of at the end of my rope here, so yeah, why not?”

 

“I think you should stay,” Steve blurts out immediately, now making it Tony’s turn to raise his eyebrows in surprise.

 

“And go against my old man’s dying wish?” Tony asks with a lop-sided grin. “Wasn’t really expecting that answer from you, Cap.”

 

“You don’t owe him anything. You don’t owe _anyone_ anything,” Steve insists, seeing the joking attitude quickly fade from Tony’s expression. He wonders how many times Tony’s felt like he needed to hear those exact words from someone and never got them. “You didn’t promise your dad you would play for his team again, but you did make a promise to yourself, to me, and to the rest of the team that you were going to beat the Irons in a Championship game. It didn’t happen last year, and it’ll be pretty hard for that to happen this year if you’re playing _for_ them, don’t you think?”

 

Tony blinks at him, for once, seemingly rendered speechless. He recovers after a minute, his cocksure smile returning to his face. “You know, you could’ve just admitted you would miss me too much.”

 

Steve scoffs and knocks their knees together. “Hardly. I’m more worried you’ll die without me to look out for you.”

 

“Yeah ri—” Tony is cut off by a well-timed sneeze, face ducking into the cover of his elbow.

 

“On second thought, maybe you should go back. A lot less rain in Malibu.”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

 

September, 1992 

 

_“Today is the big day of the Triple-A Championship game, and as you can see, fans are already lined up outside of the Avengers stadium here in Manhattan to see it all go down. The home team had a remarkable season, despite the ups and downs in the first half for star pitcher, Tony Stark, who tragically lost both of his parents earlier this year. Now of course, Howard Stark was the former CEO of Stark Industries and owner of the Malibu Irons, who had an equally tough season due to former coach, Obadiah Stane, stepping down from the position to instead fulfill the role of CEO for Stark’s company while former Major League coach Aldrich Killian took his place. Many were worried that the Irons may not even advance as they adjusted to a change in leadership mid-season, but they were able to prove their worth yet again. While this is the Irons fifth consecutive appearance in the post-season championship, it is their second time going up against the Avengers for that top spot in the entire Triple-A league. Last year ended in a devastating loss for the Avengers, who have clearly become a fan favorite for toppling the long reigning champs—”_

 

The TV flickers off. Tony turns his head the best he can from where he’s laying on his stomach. “I was watching that.”

 

“Yeah, and you shouldn't be,” Steve says with a smirk before setting the remote down and looking past Tony next to the woman massaging his shoulder. “Hi, Dr. Cho. He giving you too much trouble?”

 

“He’s actually been very well behaved this visit. I might even give him a lollipop,” she smiles, patting Tony on the back to signal he can get up.

 

“Don’t tease me like that if you can’t deliver, Helen,” Tony grunts as he sits up straight, stretching his back and rotating his shoulder. “Do I have the stamp of approval to pass off to Nat?”

 

She digs around in her cabinet with one hand while the other scratches down a few notes on a slip of paper. She tears the sheet off and hands it to Tony alongside a bright, red sucker. “You are good to go. Spine and shoulders both looking great. Somebody’s been doing their exercises.”

 

Tony grins broadly, grabbing both from her. “Only for you, Doc. See you next week?” He yanks his shirt back on over his head and zips up his training jacket before hopping off the raised exam chair and hustling out the door, bumping his shoulder against Steve’s on the way out.

 

“See you next week. And good luck with the big game today, boys!” She calls after them.

 

Tony tears the plastic off the sucker, popping it into one cheek. “You got it! Thanks again, Hel!”

 

“Thank you, Dr. Cho,” Steve adds with a polite wave before jogging to catch up to Tony who practically sprints down the hallway and out of the building.

 

They had carpooled over to the physical therapy facility, Steve getting his knee and Tony getting his shoulder checked out before the game due to Natasha’s insistence. Steve has been playing more this season than he has in the past couple of years and luckily enough hasn’t seen his old injury flare up at all. After a much more rocky season for Tony, Nat had him on weekly check-ups for sign of any rotator cuff tears in his shoulder or strain on his lower back. Spondylolysis was a pretty regular spinal injury to see in baseball, mainly from the constant twisting motion experienced by batters and pitchers.

 

It's far from fun to be holed up in the doctor’s office for a couple hours every week, but at least Steve always offers to come along with him. Tony knows about his old teammate Bucky— the one who suffered the really bad UCL tear— and how dedicated Steve was to seeing his recovery. All that guilt on his conscious is most likely what has him tagging along, trying to prevent Tony from falling to the same hubris.

 

Full of energy and raring to go, Tony slides over the hood of Steve’s car to jump into the passenger side, ignoring the indignant outcry from behind him. Maybe a few more scuffs here or there would finally tip Steve over the edge to buy a new car already and get rid of his _tragic_ beater.

 

Tony thumbs his way through Steve’s cassettes— yes, seriously _cassettes—_ glancing up only when he notices Steve driving almost the opposite direction of the stadium. “Do you need directions, Gramps?”

 

Steve rolls his eyes. “We have one stop to make before we go to the stadium.”

 

Tony doesn’t appreciate the cryptic tone of it all, but he just settles into his seat and lets the radio play, unable to find even an ounce of rock in Steve’s weird collection of jazz tapes.

 

It’s not until he feels the car slow and recognizes the peak of a church steeple that Tony leans forward, narrowing his gaze. Steve pulls off to the side of the road, parking along the sidewalk in front of an wrought iron gate.

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Tony, I think you should—”

 

“I said no. _Fuck_ no. Drive, Steve.”

 

“Have you been back here since the funeral?”

 

Tony’s jaw tightens, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “...No. And so what?”

 

Steve turns the car off, sitting back in his own seat. “I think you should visit. Just for a minute. I’ll be right here waiting.” He leans over in front of Tony and throws the car door open with a creak. He continues to sit petulantly, staring straight ahead and ignoring the now open door that’s just waiting to clip some unsuspecting sidewalk cyclist. “We’re going to be late.”

 

“Yeah, because of _you_ ,” Tony spits. “I don’t want to do this today.”

 

“If not today, when?” Steve sighs. “You’ve been doing really well with your grief counseling. I don’t want to force you, but if I don’t give you this little push then you won’t do it at all.” He reaches over to rub Tony’s shoulder. “I’ll be right here when you’re done and we’ll go straight to the park.”

 

Tony glares at him before finally unbuckling his seatbelt. “Fine, but you have to come with me you manipulative dickhead.” He angrily gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

 

Steve follows him without protest. Going with Tony wasn’t part of the plan, but he has a fair point. Leaves crunch under their feet as they trudge up the path, winding their way through the stretches of gravestones as they make their way to the top of the hill.

 

Howard and Maria’s gravestones sit, side by side, with day-old flowers and a few worn out mitts and baseballs still sitting there. Tony knows someone comes by to clear it out every other day or so, but he gave the staffing instruction long ago to just donate anything that would be worth using still. No reason for a bunch of perfectly good bats or balls to waste their time in some cemetery when there could be kids who can’t afford them who want to play.

 

Tony shoves his hands in his pockets, the fall chill nipping at his exposed skin. He turns to look at Steve who’s standing a few feet back, giving him his space. “What do you expect me to do here, talk to the air?” Tony grumbles.

 

Steve just shrugs. “Do whatever you feel is natural. Think about what the counselor told you.”

 

Tony waits until he’s facing forward again to roll his eyes. The therapy sessions are completely useless to him, but Steve and Bruce are devoted advocates to its necessity. _Grief counseling_ , so stupid. Tony doesn’t need to sit in a big circle of sniffling adults who want to talk about their feelings to cope. It makes him uncomfortable, trying to be vulnerable in front of a bunch of strangers. He’s hardly even able to be that open and honest with his friends.

 

Knowing he has to do something before Steve will let him go, Tony sighs and stares down at the grave markers. “Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. I know there’s no afterlife or whatever, and that you guys are now just a couple of corpses buried six feet underground, but I guess if I was _entertaining_ the idea that some part of you could still be around to see what I’m doing and hear me now… Well, I just want you to know that I did what I set out to do from the start. Despite Howard’s last-ditch effort to guilt me into going back to the Irons from beyond the grave— big surprise— I didn’t listen. I’m still playing for the Avengers and despite some issues at the start of the season, we’ve been doing really well. I’m going to be playing _against_ Howard’s team today, and I know we’re going to absolutely crush them. You always told me to have a backbone and will made of iron, so here I am. Hopefully the Irons’ loss today will have you rolling in your grave, and that will be enough for me.”

 

Tony almost leaves it at that, one last disrespectful monologue to give his old man the finger before he goes off to seal his former team’s fate. His eyes fall upon Maria’s tombstone. Tony crouches down, reaching out to run his fingers along the soft petals of a few white roses that have been left there. A few petals crumble and fall off the flower from his delicate touch, the integrity of the blossoms compromised from the few days sitting out in the stale weather. He lowers his voice so Steve won’t hear, needing this moment to stay between him and Maria. “I lost myself for a little while there, Mom. I started doing what I thought would make people happy and forgot everything you taught me. I’m still figuring out the kind of person I am, and the person I’m trying to be. You aren’t around to help me figure that out anymore, but I… I think I’ve found some good people who _can_. I hope that whatever kind of person I do become, he’s someone who’s going to make you proud.”

 

He doesn’t cry like he expected, but he does get a little choked up towards the end. Blinking a bit to clear his blurry vision, Tony gets to his feet and wipes his nose off on his sleeve before he turns back to Steve. “Happy now?”

 

“Yeah. Do you feel any better?”

 

“Sure,” Tony answers vaguely, trudging back down the hill towards the cursed Pinto. “All emotional scarring is now healed, time to get on with our lives.” He hears a heavy sigh behind him and can’t fight his smile.

 

They’re the last to arrive to the ballpark, security tight to keep the media and the fans around the front side so the players are able to get in with no issues. Natasha is pretty strict on reporters talking to them before the game starts, so if they have any interviews with outlets, it won’t be until after the game. Tony has a good idea of the kinds of questions he’s going to hear considering he’ll be defeating his former team, Janet providing appropriate answers he can work off of. Of course, he’ll probably stray away from those more curated statements to give a classic Tony Stark quote, but at this point she surely expects a little clean up will be necessary.

 

Predictably, Natasha grabs them both by the ears and scolds them for showing up late, hurrying them into their uniforms after accepting Tony’s clean bill of health from Dr. Cho. He’s not batting today, but Natasha has him slated to pitch all nine innings as long as he can handle it. And he will.

 

“Hey! We were wondering where you two were,” Scott greets from where he’s stretching with a group of their teammates. “What took you so long?”

 

“Oh, you know Steve, always showing up late,” Tony answers flippantly, distracted as he looks out onto the field to where Irons players are warming up and conversing in small pockets. He spots some familiar faces, but there are plenty of new ones as well. He can see the new coach, Killian, standing off to the side talking to the umpire. He looks like a smarmy prick, so he’s probably a great replacement for the helm of the Irons.

 

“Stark, head out of the clouds, Coach wants you warmed up and ready to go,” Strange snaps at him, waving him over. Tony has always felt like the guy kind of resents him, but it’s not his fault he showed up and is a better pitcher than the guy playing in the Triples after recovering from hand-related injuries. He’s a clever man and a decent pitcher, but he’ll probably never be able to make it past this league with his inconsistencies in ability.

 

For once, Tony blocks out the rest of the world. Where he normally lets the environment fuel him, the sound of the fans pumping him up, the attention from the commentators raising his chin higher, his teammates and rivals alike driving him to play harder— it all falls away.

 

As they line up in the tunnel before the match start, waiting to walk out and go head to head against their competition for the second year in a row, Tony realizes his heart is racing from more than just adrenaline. He’s always been competitive for the sake of competition, not because he actually cared about the sport. Ironically enough, maybe all it took was his dad’s passing for him to finally realize that baseball could be something he enjoyed, not just something to excel at for notoriety.

 

Although seeing Steve standing at the front of the line-up with his shoulders squared and a determined spark in his eye tells him that maybe his newfound love for the sport has a different source.

 

They walk out onto the field, their starting lineup announced each by name and number before their opponents come out. The Irons, as always, look like a well-oiled machine, a united front as they come to stand in front of the home team, player facing player. Tony resists the urge to visibly gag when it’s Justin Hammer who comes to a stop just a foot in front of him. He determinedly keeps his gaze forward but focused somewhere beyond the fucker’s smarmy mug, refusing to make eye contact.

 

“Tony,” Hammer greets, tipping the brim of his hat with a disgusting grin.

 

“Hammer,” he replies evenly, still staring straight past him.

 

“I’ve got bets with the other guys that you’ll play even worse than when we kicked your ass last year. Any comments on that?”

 

“Just that your nose looks better than it did last year. I imagine that’s the only thing that’s improved for you.”

 

The smirk quickly turns into a scowl, Hammer spitting at the ground between his feet. There are no more words exchanged before the teams are dismissed to their respective sides of the field.

 

To Tony’s surprise, Nick Fury is standing outside of the dugout, staring him down as much as he can with his single eyeball. The rest of the team looks surprised as well, Fury rarely making appearances to them during actual game time. Owners don’t necessarily have to engage that often with a team— they’re more about the numbers than actual human relation. He knows that Fury has multiple other business ventures, including many dealings with Stark Industries. Tony’s actually fairly sure he’s seen the man more times at his father’s events than he has since actually playing for his team.

 

“Stark,” Fury looks him over, hands in his expensive suit pockets. “Coach Romanoff tells me you’re playing the entire game today. Seems like quite the undertaking, are you sure you can handle it?”

 

Tony straightens his posture slightly to accommodate for the man’s towering stature and presence. “That’s right. And I certainly will. It hasn’t been a challenge before, so this game won’t be any different.”

 

Fury smiles. “This game is very different, actually. I recommend you treat it as such if you want to see a win this year. Your old team is fighting to uphold the legacy of your father’s memory. What is it that you’re fighting for today?”

 

“I don’t know. Why don’t you kick the bucket and find out?”

 

Fury’s eye narrows. “You’re too much like your dad, kid.”

 

“Yeah I get that a lot, unfortunately,” Tony glances over to where the rest of his team is waiting. Steve keeps casting curious glances their way, mouth pressed in a tight line as he worriedly looks between him and Fury. “Will that be all, sir?”

 

“Make us proud. Make Maria proud too.”

 

Tony’s throat tightens unexpectedly. “Yes, sir,” he croaks as the man walks back into the stadium, probably going back to the best box in the house to watch the game unfold.

 

The starters are already taking up their positions in the field, Tony rushing to grab his mitt from the dugout and get to the pitcher’s mound. As the home team, they’ll defend at the top half of the inning and then go on the offense. His own spot on the batting roster will be filled by designated hitters today, Natasha not wanting to risk any additional strain or injury since Tony is determined to pitch for all nine innings. It’s a trade off he’s not happy with, but willing to take to keep a hand on the wheel at all times.

 

“Tony,” Steve calls out for him, grabbing him by the sleeve. He doesn’t have the kind of stamina to last the whole game so Natasha plans on subbing him in as short stop when they need his defensive skills most.

 

Tony stops, turning to look at him. Clear blue eyes are earnest and searching, flitting over Tony’s face before landing on where his hand is fisted in the sleeve of his jersey as if the limb had acted out of his own accord. “Good luck,” he eventually settles on, looking like there’s so much more he wants to say.

 

Tony flashes him a quick grin and a wink. “Don’t need it.”

 

With a fond sounding sigh, Steve’s own lips twitch into a smile as he releases his hold. “I know.”

 

The mental preparation for this game has been on par with the physical as far as Tony’s been concerned. He’s done his best to heed Steve’s advice and ignore the media, but it hasn’t been easy. The general public seems to be rallying behind support of the Irons to be respectful to the fact that their founder and team owner had died earlier this year, however, his only son being on the other team has some empathetic people in his corner as well. It’s certainly a dilemma to be in, especially when there seems to be a particularly nasty rumor that if the Avengers lose today, Tony will be going back to his old team. He wouldn’t dream of it in a million years, but of course the media just wants to amp up the drama of the entire situation. Some people even claim that the Avengers winning would be disgraceful, but what would they have the team do? Give the Irons a pity win just to honor Howard’s memory? Tony hates the hypocrisy of it all, not caring what kind of backlash they might receive if-- _when_ they win today.

 

Even with the abrupt change in coaching, the individual players on the Malibu team are regarded as some of the best in the entire MiLB with solid stats across the board. There’s a reason they’ve made it to the top of their league for almost every season they’ve been around, especially with Howard and Pepper’s management team constantly headhunting the best players, even going as far as to finding loopholes in contracts to buy them out from somewhere else. The team essentially has unlimited funds considering Stark Industries supplies equipment to both the Major Minor, and International leagues.

 

And here the Avengers are, a ragtag team that has in recent years sat comfortably in the middle of the pack until Tony came along and reawakened their fighting spirit.

 

The first pitch is always one of the hardest. Top of the batting order starts with the leadoff hitter for the other team: a player with a high on-base percentage who’s fast and knows how to steal a base. A strong starter to ensure at least someone is on base once the power hitters step up to the plate. He’s batting lefty, Tony sticking with a right-handed pitch for now.

 

_“Strike one!”_

 

Excited cheers rise up but Tony blocks them out. It’s far too early for celebration when they have such a strong opponent today.

 

The second pitch goes as expected. Rickenwald makes contact with the ball and initially makes a dash for second, but changes his decision last second when the fielders give him a run for his money, and he has to settle for a single instead. Good. Tony needs as much support as he can get from the rest of the team.

 

He expects some runs scored in the first inning, but not _four_. The Irons clearly are not here to mess around, and they prove that when the Avengers are up to bat next. Tony watches anxiously from the sidelines, sitting between Steve and Scott in the dugout with one leg bouncing uncontrollably as he watches. He feels Steve’s hand cover his knee, holding it still. Steve isn’t looking at him, his eyes focused on the field the same as everyone else. Tony doesn’t make a comment, letting his legs relax. Steve’s hand stays put for the rest of the inning, fingers occasionally squeezing during a tense moment, but never moving away until Tony has to get up again to return to the pitch.

 

The Avengers manage to match each run, the game already tied at 4-4 going into the second inning, essentially putting Tony in the exact same position he started in. His first two pitches go _just_ outside of where he wants them to, the first one a ball, and the second meeting an indirect swing that sends it flying foul. He takes a deep breath as he pulls the next ball close to his chest, holding it there for a moment before the pitch. He imagines the feeling of Steve’s calming hand, warm and assuring, pressing against his knee.

 

He strikes the next two batters out, and the third is tagged out on first by T’Challa. It’s the complete opposite of the first inning, including how the Avengers perform when it’s their turn to bat. They get a couple batters on base, but even when Bruce comes up for the sweep, the Irons’ center fielder makes a risky dive and catches the ball for their third out, neither score moving an inch. A rather uneventful second inning all things considered.

 

The game continues to yo-yo like that both in action and which team takes the lead. One half of an inning will go smoothly and quickly, while the second gets dragged out with contested calls, injuries, substitutions, and multiple runs in a single play. At the end of the third, the Avengers are up by two. By the fourth, the Irons have pulled ahead by three. The following inning has no scored runs, but instead produces multiple players from both sides removed from play either due to injury or being ejected by the umpires. After a contested play on second where Tony had assisted Rhodey in tagging out a player who had taken too big of a lead-off trying to get to third, the baserunner had decided he wasn’t too happy and tried to pick a fight with Rhodes instead of walking off the diamond. Refs immediately ran in to break it up, ejecting the Irons player from the game. Another risky move sends the Irons’ shortstop away after reviewing the play shows a purposeful collision that had put Clint out of commission. The Avengers lose two more for strained injuries, and then Pietro goes and gets himself ejected for accusing the refs of favoritism when he clearly got to home base before the ball but it’s called out. Another injury for the Irons’ side, and suddenly they’re all down by a few players.

 

Tony certainly doesn’t fail to notice that the opposing team is rotating pitchers every two innings, an unconventional move on the Irons’ part. He knows they have more active members than the Avengers, but how many pitchers does Killian have at his disposal? Maybe it’s a strategic decision. Even if Tony isn’t the one at bat, most people know of Tony’s tendencies to analyze players and immediately pinpoint the exact ways to combat their abilities, which is information he can easily share with his coach and teammates. He could also be baiting Natasha to switch out pitchers as well, knowing Tony is their best shot at outsmarting his batters. Tony trusts Tasha to keep her word, and so far she’s given no indication that she’s going to pull Tony from the mound. Killian’s playing a game of chicken by himself and it has yet to pay off considering even with all the substitutions, no side seems to be pulling far enough ahead to warrant any comfort.

 

Tony feels an odd weight lifted when it’s time for the seventh inning and he finally sees Steve jog out onto the field. The Avengers are back in the lead now, and Natasha has been sparing as far as substitutions go. Now, there had been a pretty big shift in regards to the line-up, both in the outfield and on the batting roster. The closers are in, and at this point they can’t risk losing anymore of their players, down to their last substitute after all the injuries that have occurred.

 

The previous inning was another high scoring round, their scores skyrocketing from Irons: 9 - Avengers: 6, to Irons: 10 - Avengers: 11, New York taking the lead once more. Even if Tony escapes this game without any kind of spinal or arm injury, he’s certainly going to be suffering from whiplash along with all the spectators.

 

The Irons’ opener is a power hitter and ends up sending the ball sailing to the far corner of the park. It gets fumbled and rolls, Quill scooping it up late and struggling to get it into the infield. Steve does his best to try and save the play once the ball gets to him, but it’s too late. The Irons’ player makes it all the way to home, scoring a run and tying the game up yet again.

 

The whistle blows for a time out after Tony’s next pitch, the batter just barely getting away with a single. Killian is the reason for the hold up in the play, barking something into the dugout where Hammer finally emerges. Tony watches through narrowed eyes as he jogs out onto the field, taking the place of the batter on first. Ah, so he wasn’t slated to pitch at all this game. For some odd reason, Killian had switched him over to a pinch runner. Thinking about it, Hammer’s pretty quick on his feet even if his baserunning stats don’t reflect that. Still, the choice seemed odd unless the man he subbed in for is particularly slow. Putting in a pinch runner at the very beginning of an inning when he’s only on first base is almost useless, especially this late in the game and _right after_ they scored a home run. Tony shakes his head, not needing to spend any additional time thinking about Killian’s strange strategy and the annoyance now plaguing the field.

 

After his next pitch, he immediately understands Killian’s decision. Once Hammer has gotten the chance to advance to second, he begins to heckle Tony from behind.

 

“Hey, Tony, you free later? If you’re not satisfied after getting fucked during this game today, I saw some old Wall Street pervs at our hotel who would probably love some company!”

 

“Strike one!”

 

“You seem to be walking a little funny today, you and the other deviants have a little too much fun last night?”

 

“Strike two!”

 

“Maybe you like pitching so much because you prefer to _catch_ in bed, am I right?”

 

Tony can’t ignore him anymore. He whirls around in anger, throwing an arm up as he looks to the referee standing only a few feet away from second base. “Hey, ref, you wanna do something about this harassment?” He calls out in annoyance. “There’s supposed to be rules about that kinda shit.”

 

The man is an old grizzled type, and it would be just Tony’s luck that out of the four refs mixed from each league, this one happens to belong to the PCL. He stands with crossed arms, staring indifferently at Tony before he glances over at Hammer. “Zip it and let the kid throw the ball.”

 

“Oh my apologies! I’d hate to come in between Tony and his balls. I know what a penchant he has for them,” Hammer holds up his hands innocently and the referee— bastard— actually cracks a smile.

 

He then snaps his fingers at Tony. “Get back to it, you’re holding up the game.”

 

Anger flares up inside of him and it takes all of his self control to bite back his retort that he wasn’t the reason the game was getting held up. Furious, he turns back around, trying to shake off the comments from behind him. He winds up and pitches the next ball, immediately feeling that it left his hand all wrong from how he intended it.

 

It’s a solid hit with the bat, the ball coming right back towards Tony. It bounces once on the ground before he jumps forward to catch it. He knows he has the chance to get it to first and get a possible out, but he instead pivots in the opposite direction and fires the ball to third.

 

Unfortunately the snap decision was just in increment too slow. Hammer makes it safely to third before the ball connects with Cleese’s mitt. Tony swears under his breath, catching the absolutely shit-eating grin on Hammer’s face as he straightens up. “Too slow, Stark!”

 

His fingers clench tightly around the ball once it’s back in his hand. He can almost hear Steve’s voice in the back of his head. _Tune him out, Tony._ He turns back around, letting his vision tunnel in again on the opponent at hand. The sound around him dulls down into a roar. He can still hear Hammer’s tones in the cacophony, but his words are incomprehensible as Tony stares down the line and in three clean pitches, strikes the next batter out.

 

Suddenly voices and whistles break through the dull roar.

 

“Hey, hey, hey! Break it up!”

 

“Call him that one more time! I’ll shut you up myself!”

 

Tony turns to see Steve has taken several strides closer to Hammer who’s also stepped off third base to come towards him. One referee is already in between them with another one coming over. Steve’s arms are tensed, the veins popping out at the effort of being held at their sides while Hammer gets up in his space, pressing his chest against Steve’s as the referee’s arm attempts to separate them. No one’s in trouble until someone takes a swing.

 

“Why’s it bother you so much, huh? You daffodils gotta stick together?”

 

“I said break it up you two!”

 

All the attention is turned on the confrontation, Tony running over from the pitch to grab Steve by the arm and tug him away. “Drop it, Steve! This is what Hammer wants, just leave it alone!” He hisses angrily, clawing at Steve’s bicep as he gets a good hold on him and manages to drag him back by a couple of feet. If one more player for their team gets kicked out, they’re done for. With how the game is going so far, they can’t afford to lose anyone else, especially not their Captain.

 

“Not another word!” One of the refs roars, the same one who had rebuffed Tony’s complaints earlier. “I ain’t gonna tolerate anymore of this. Not another peep outta you,” he growls, pointing at Hammer. He then brings the angry finger around to jab it towards Steve and Tony. “And _you two_ get over yourselves and learn to deal with a little trash talk.”

 

“That’s not just trash talk, that’s _homophobia_!” Steve argues, Tony taken aback by the pure outrage in his voice.

 

“That’s _baseball_ ,” the referee responds vehemently before blowing his whistle again right in Steve’s face. “Now get back in position before I eject all three of you pansies!”

 

Hammer grins cruelly as he saunters back to third, looking relaxed while Steve looks ready to implode if he doesn’t unclench soon. “Hey,” Tony says softly to get his attention, squeezing his arm one more time before dropping it away, conscious of the attention on them and Hammer still watching. He keeps his teeth clenched, lips barely moving so his words are hidden. “Next one’s coming right to you. Be ready.”

 

Steve locks eyes with him, a flicker of recognition there before he dips his head and goes back to his position between second and third. Tony takes his own position back as well, eyes flitting over the next batter. Right-handed, a contact hitter willing to ground a ball to sacrifice his own play to further someone else’s. Easy.

 

He starts with a screwball just to get a good eye on the trajectory of his swing, then pitches a circle changeup just for research purposes. Two strikes, and what would be an easy out, which is what Tony’s counting on Hammer also thinking. He doesn’t expect the ball to go anywhere.

 

Tony’s fastball streaks forward, straight and fast. The batter isn’t expecting it, and he follows his same swing pattern to make contact. The ball continues the quick momentum, Tony whirling around to keep track of it with his eyes as it sails over his head.

 

Steve is ready for it, glove outstretched to safely catch it, immediately bringing his arm in so his dominant hand can scoop the ball and fire it towards home. Hammer loses the race against the ball, tripping over his own feet as he falls down onto the plate seconds after Victor has already received it.

 

“Too slow, Hammer!” Steve calls across the field before tossing the ball back to Tony who can’t fight his smile.

 

“Thanks,” he mouths. Even though it’s Steve’s job to try and get as many players out as possible, Tony likes to think that this one in particular was just for him.

 

The whistle blows for the half, players from both sides exiting the field. Tony skips the seventh inning stretch pep talk from Natasha, knowing he’ll get an earful for it later, win or lose. He locks himself in a bathroom to just be alone and _think_ for a moment during the extended break time. His hands are shaking as he stands in front of the sink, clutching at the porcelain until his knuckles turn a similar shade.

 

The Irons playing so aggressively isn’t unfamiliar to Tony, but all the risky plays are… surprising. Mostly because the results have been in the Avengers’ favor. Obadiah would never allow so many attempts to steal bases, bunts, or excessive lead-offs. Tony can’t even count on two hands how many outs or almost outs he’s gotten on this game alone from having quick enough reaction time to spin around and hurl the ball to one of his basemen when the visiting baserunner got a little too cocky about straying from his base. The decisions the players are making become more and more unintelligent as the game goes on, and Tony realizes it’s because they’re _scared_. They’re getting desperate, even after lording it over the entire International League for the past year how they massacred their best team in the ‘91 Championship.

 

He stares at his reflection, eyes wild from adrenaline and sweat dripping from his hair now that his hat is removed. They’re _so close_. It’s still anyone’s game, tied up going into the bottom of the seventh. The game has been such a high scoring match so far that he doesn’t find it unreasonable they get two, possibly three runs this go, putting them in a fair lead for the last two innings. But again, this game has been anything but predictable, even for Tony’s deductive capabilities. He takes a few more seconds to gather himself, splashing his face with cold water before pushing his hair back from his face and sealing it away beneath his cap, striding back to the field with an ever-growing determination coursing through his veins.

 

He’s wrong, they don’t get two or three runs, because they get _four_. Steve steps up with bases loaded and gets a two-run sweep, the next batters assisting further and driving another two home with some sacrifice flies to end the inning.

 

The Irons answer the call when it’s time for the eighth inning. They continue to stay close on the Avengers’ heels, three runs in the bag before their final out is made. 14-15, New York maintains the lead.

 

Both sides have seen a quick rotation of the batting order, each inning half being torturously drawn out at times. They’ve gotten no runs and two outs, Steve finally stepping back up to plate. All he’s got is Thor on second and the odds aren’t in their favor. Both teams have fatigue beginning to show, but Tony is unable to stay put in the dugout when it’s his turn to rest. He stands at the edge of the field, hands clasped together over his mouth as he silently observes.

 

With an excellent swing on Steve’s part, he earns a double and Thor is driven home. A wave of relief washes over everyone on the Avengers’ side as they continue to strengthen the lead. 14-16. Still too close for comfort, but better than before. If they can get one more run, then Tony will take a moment to breathe again.

 

Surprisingly, Steve makes an excellent play and steals third while the next player is at bat, Tony glowing with pride when he realizes it was using a tactic he had taught him last year. Steve isn’t a huge fan of stealing bases, but Tony had been steadily warming him to the idea that it has its benefits when one is able to weigh the risk vs reward of it. And boy, do they need some reward right about now.

 

Scott’s up to bat next. He gets two fouls in a row, the second one looking promising at first but landing outside of the lines. Steve had booked it for both of them, unwilling to even hesitate even if the ball did end up going wide. He’s almost at home when the whistle blows and calls it a bad ball. He skids to a stop, clearly frustrated as he yet again has to make his way back to third. He’s at no more than a steady jog, in a hurry to get back on base so the game can continue, when Tony sees him go down.

 

Before he can stop himself he’s streaking across the field, blowing right past a referee, Natasha, and the Irons’ third baseman who’s coming over to help. “Steve!” He drops down to his knees beside the man who’s still laying on his side. “Steve, are you okay? Can you get up?” He asks frantically, reaching out to help him back to his feet.

 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Steve insists, getting up to one knee. He stays in that position for a few moments, Tony staring down at his bad leg in worry. Natasha and the ref make it to his side, one of the medics in tow.

 

“Rogers?” Natasha asks tensely, not needing to word the full question on her mind.

 

“I’m good,” Steve promises, looking up at all of them. Tony and the medic get their arms around him to haul all 200 pounds of him to his feet. He holds a hand up to the medic who immediately turns her attention on his knee, her hand curling around the back of it.

 

“Don’t put any weight on it,” she warns, but is ignored by Steve who steps away from both of them.

 

“I’m really okay,” he says, standing solidly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He’s clearly testing it out despite his outward confidence. “I’m just getting old,” he chuckles.

 

Tony doesn’t laugh. “Steve,” he addresses seriously. “You can’t get hurt. Not for this.”

 

“I’m not,” he continues to insist, his own humor fading as he fixes his gaze on Tony. “I know when to stop, and now’s not the time. We _need_ to win this.”

 

“Just let the doctor look—”

 

“I don’t need her to—”

 

“Don’t be so stubborn!” Tony snaps, turning to Natasha for help. “Tell him, Coach.”

 

Natasha’s mouth is set in a tight line. “Steve, are you really good?”

 

“We don’t have any subs left,” Steve says in way of an answer.

 

“Then we lose,” Tony states through gritted teeth.

 

“Do you hear yourself?” Steve asks, raising his voice to an authoritative level. “We’re winning this game, Tony.”

 

“Not at the cost of you getting hurt!” Tony explodes. “Don’t think of the stupid game right now, none of that matters!”

 

“Do you even hear yourself right now?!”

 

“Yes, do _you?!_ ”

 

“We need a call,” the referee says quietly to Natasha and the medic amidst the arguing.

 

Tony can feel his anger and frustration mounting. “You’re the one always lecturing everybody about injuries and taking care of them properly and blah, blah, blah! But now you’re not even taking your own advice!” Tony shouts at him, stepping closer into Steve’s personal space. “Don’t you care about yourself?!”

 

“I care about _you_!” Steve finally bursts. Tony’s retort dies in his throat. Steve grabs him by the shoulders and for a terrifyingly exhilarating moment, Tony thinks he’s about to get kissed.

 

Steve shoves him back instead, not hard, but enough to send Tony a couple steps back. “That’s why I’m doing this.” He looks to the stunned spectators of their dispute and nods. “Sorry for the hold up. We can resume.”

 

“Steve—” Tony croaks weakly. Natasha places a hand on his chest.

 

“He’s fine, Tony. Come on.”

 

Unwillingly, Tony returns to the edge of the field, still refusing to go sit on the bench. He had been observing the entire game thus far, but now he only has eyes for Steve. He shows no signs of strain or limping, but Tony is still worried for him. He wants to believe the man is responsible enough to know his own limitations, but it feels wrong. Any other circumstance and Steve would’ve happily come off the field.

 

_I care about you._

 

His words echo in Tony’s mind. It was powerful and assertive. It was vulnerable and raw. It was a confession.

 

Tony shakes his head. There will be time later to ponder and to pine, but right now, he needs to keep his head on straight. He’s been so determined to win this game for years now, but as soon as Steve’s well-being is placed on the line, he crumbles. He’s suddenly willing to sacrifice everything he’s been fighting for, the entire reason for doing _all_ of this. Somehow all the resentment and rivalry between them from the very moment they shared the same field was just… gone. Gone and replaced with something else.

 

 _I care about you too_ , he thinks to himself.

 

Scott finally has a clean hit. Steve bolts for home with powerful strides, not a single twinge or falter in his movement as he crosses home plate. Tony doesn’t unclench, staring at Steve from the corner of his eye as the man returns to the dugout, keeping a wide berth from Tony as he chugs a bottle of water. After Cleese hits a double, Thor follows things up with a home run, the next player is out before he can get to first, and the penultimate inning comes to a close. The Avengers now have a massive lead with nineteen total runs, _five_ ahead of the Irons.

 

He remembers the game at this point last year, how they all were practically begging for a mercy killing to end it. It had been a truly soul crushing defeat for his team, the final scoreboard reading Irons: 15 - Avengers: 3. Its marked in the books as the biggest gap in points in the history of the single-game Championship event. It’s a David vs Goliath story that, last year, didn’t end well for David.

 

Not again.

 

Tony pitches left-handed for the final inning, doing his best to keep the ball away from Steve’s position. He knows what a pipe dream that is. The entire basis of shortstop is that it’s the toughest defensive position with the most labor intensive movements. Plenty of pivoting which was bad for Steve’s knee, but the man prevails. Tony does his best not to lose his focus now, but whenever he has a spare millisecond to turn around and look at Steve, he does, just to make sure he’s not showing any sign of struggle.

 

In the end, it’s over much quicker than anyone is expecting after such a drawn out game. The Irons are swinging at practically every pitch Tony throws now, desperate to make contact with the ball. It’s a good method, and Tony doesn’t manage to strike anyone out, but that hardly matters when their defenders are laser focused with the confidence that there’s no possibility of letting five players make it all the way around the diamond.

 

In the end, only one makes it through, Tony himself earning their third and final out on quick reaction time alone, and given to none other than Justin Hammer. Tony’s screwball came flying right back for his own face, Hammer mistakenly hitting it straight back to him. He barely has a second from the ball leaving his hand before he raises his glove up in front of his face, the ball connecting solidly with the leather. It takes him to the ground, Tony leaning back out of the way from the sudden impact and falling back onto the mound. He keeps the ball clutched tight in his glove, staring up at the sky in disbelief as he raises it up to show the refs and the rest of the world that they’ve won.

 

The game is over, no need to play the second half of the inning as the scoreboard flashes 15-19 to solidify the Avengers’ victory. Even if Tony had the mind to get up right now, he would’ve immediately been knocked down again by his entire team piling on top of him. Over all the raucous cheers, the music playing, and the little pieces of red and white confetti raining down around them, Tony can hear the sounds of sobs from his team. Bruce and Thor help him to his feet and he looks around to see his teammates— his friends— embracing and crying out of pure joy. He remembers that a lot of these players never thought they’d see a Championship game again. For a handful of them, this has been their last season and they’ve ended it on a high. They all earn this triumph today, not just him. Tony can feel his own tears gathering, wiping furiously at the corners of his eyes to try and keep them at bay.

 

He hugs Bruce tightly, gets smashed in between a Thor and Quill sandwich, and Rhodey comes limping out of the dugout, Tony lifting him up and spinning him around before they both go tumbling to the ground. Even Strange grabs him by the shoulders and tells him what an amazing job he’s done. He gets jostled around between his teammates until everyone’s attention goes to lifting Natasha up in the air, the woman grinning past the tears rolling down her cheeks. While her players have all been fighting for a win, she’s been fighting just to prove herself as a female coach. She’s earned that today, fist raised up victoriously in the air as she’s lifted to her rightful place above their heads. They wouldn’t be here without her.

 

“Thank you, Nat,” Tony yells to her over the crowd when she’s finally back on the ground with them. They embrace tightly, Tony burying his face in her hair. She’s believed in him as his coach from day one, even when he was nothing but a thorn in her side. She never let him give up, always knew what was best for him as a person and a player, and even today gave him everything he wanted.

 

“Anytime, brat,” she laughs fondly into his ear. Suddenly she tears away from him, running out of the group as Clint and Pietro break through the crowd with a water cooler hoisted over their shoulders. No one else joins them in their dubious pursuit, Natasha screaming at them that she’ll have them running suicides until their legs fall off if they get anywhere near her with that. Tony laughs as they streak around the field, Natasha much faster and more nimble than the two hauling around the container, spilling more on themselves than their coach in the attempt to douse her.

 

A hand suddenly catches the back of Tony’s head, spinning him around. He finds himself pressed forehead-to-forehead with Steve, both of their hats knocked free or thrown somewhere in all of the celebration. Tony gapes slightly at the closeness, the rest of the world suddenly falling away with Steve pressed this close, his hand holding Tony firmly by the base of his skull. Steve’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, hiding away what Tony wants to see most in that moment.

 

“I knew you could do it,” Steve rasps to him in their private little bubble. “I wish your mom could be here to see it.”

 

Tony finally feels traitorous tears spilling over and he throws his arms around Steve’s neck, unsure if he even has the strength to stand anymore or if Steve is bearing all of his weight at this point. “Yours too,” Tony whispers, doubtful Steve could even hear his reply over all the uproar, voice muffled with his face pressed tightly into his own shoulder. “Sarah’d be so proud, Steve.”

 

Arms tighten around his waist and he feels a wetness pool against his neck as Steve tucks his face there, letting Tony know that his words reached him after all.

 

 

 

December, 1992 

 

Laughter fills the small studio apartment alongside the soft crooning of Christmas classics from the likes of _Wham!_ and others. The snowfall outside has slowed to an occasional flurry, the winds picking up the light dusting of sparkling powder and sending it swirling along salt-covered sidewalks and roads. Behind frosted windows are dark and empty apartments, the inhabitants visiting elsewhere for the holidays, while some are warm and lively, filled with people. Parents corralling their children to get them in bed before St. Nick’s arrival, Christmas parties winding down with guests slowly trickling out and making promises to see each other next year, while some just contain three old friends sitting on the floor, playing cards, and catching up with each other.

 

“Nat, got any fours?”

 

“Go fish, Sammy. Steve, any Queens?”

 

Steve sighs and hands over two of his cards.

 

“Alright, that’s it, you’re cheating,” Sam declares, throwing his cards down on the table. “It’s the only explanation.”

 

“How does anybody cheat at Go Fish?” Natasha snorts, laying down another set of cards.

 

“I don’t know, but you’d find a way,” he retorts sourly.

 

“I’ll take that as your forfeit,” she says smugly before dropping the last couple cards in her hand as well before she pushes herself onto her feet. “Water anyone?”

 

“Yes please,” Sam groans, leaning back against the couch. Natasha scoops up all their empty glasses and heads to the kitchen.

 

“So, you thinking about dropping that very successful and lucrative career in the Majors to come play with us again?” She asks optimistically from the sink.

 

Sam rolls his eyes with a grin. “Although the company _would_ be better, I don’t think it’ll happen anytime soon.”

 

“You locked in for another season with the Knights?” Steve asks.

 

“Yup,” Sam shoves a fistful of chips into his mouth. “Another two at least. Just signed my soul over last week. How about you guys? I’m sure everyone’s knocking down your door after that big win.”

 

“Janet is up to her ears in paperwork,” Natasha groans as she comes back to pass around their waters. “Which means I’m up to my neck trying to deal with transfers and all that nonsense. We had about three retire this year and another handful who are looking to trade up. Lord knows the Majors are clamoring after half our team after that game with the Irons,” she makes a face, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I have no idea where this is going to take us next.”

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Steve says confidently, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. “The Avengers are a family, no matter what.”

 

“Tell that to the six-figure contracts,” she sighs before gathering up all the cards and shuffling them between two expert hands. “Alright, what’s next, Poker?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Sam and Steve answer in unison.

 

They end up sitting around just chatting for another hour as Sam sobers up enough to walk back to the subway. He’s visiting family in Harlem over the holidays before returning to D.C. The three of them had sort of become their own trio of musketeers during their time together in the minor league, Steve and Nat both feeling that same energy rekindle whenever the occasion arose where Sam had time to visit. They wish him well on his way out the door, promising to try and catch him one more time before he flies back.

 

Steve sticks around a bit longer and helps Natasha clean up the slight mess they’ve made of her apartment. As he helps her tidy up and wash dishes, he notices a packed bag near her bed. “Going somewhere?” He asks curiously. Natasha stays very quiet in regards to her private life, but over the years Steve had at least learned that she doesn’t have any living relatives to speak of, and doesn’t ever mention friends or contacts outside of the baseball community.

 

“Upstate to see Clint and his family. His wife just had their new baby a couple of months ago and I have yet to meet the little stinker. I’m leaving tonight before the roads get too bad.”

 

Plates clatter in the sink as they slip from Steve’s hands, startling the woman. “Barton has a wife? He has _kids_?”

 

Natasha smirks, clearly amused by Steve’s bewilderment. “You don’t know all your players as well as you think you do. I know Clint doesn’t exactly scream family man, but you’d be surprised.” She folds a blanket and places it carefully over the back of one couch, a knowing smirk on her face. “Maybe you could learn a little more about everyone else if you paid as much attention to them as you do with Tony.”

 

Steve fumbles her dinnerware again, surprised he hasn’t broken anything yet. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks defensively.

 

“Oh nothing,” she sing-songs, walking over to assembly-line dishes into her drying rack. He doesn’t have time to ask her to elaborate before she moves on to the next topic, perhaps for the better. “What about you? Any plans for Christmas?” She knows he doesn’t have much in the way of family or friends either. Well, he has _one_ friend.

 

“I’m actually going upstate too. Visiting Bucky.”

 

“You guys should swing by if he’s close to Kingston. Clint’s farm isn’t far off of there.”

 

“Barton has a _farm?_ ”

 

Natasha chuckles. “I guess it’s more Laura’s than his considering he’s not really home to maintain it, but yeah, he does. And they always cook a monstrous amount for dinner, way too much for three adults, two kids, and a baby to eat. We’d love to have you.”

 

Dinner with a family on a farm actually does sound pretty inviting. For as long as he can remember, he and Buck spent every Christmas together even after their families had long since passed. They normally spent it just the two of them holed up at Bucky’s place for the day, but maybe it would be nice for a change of pace. “He actually isn’t far from Kingston either. I think we’d love to come if Clint’s family doesn’t mind.”

 

Natasha smiles at him. “Absolutely. I hear his kids are big fans of yours anyway, Captain,” she winks. Suddenly it makes sense why Clint was always asking for him to autograph gloves and balls and jerseys. He always just thought it was for some gag. “Besides, I feel like I’ve heard so much about this Bucky guy and have yet to actually meet him. Is he cute? Single?” She asks jokingly.

 

Steve laughs. “Both, actually.”

 

She hums in interest and they leave it at that. The snow is starting to come down heavier than before, Steve getting the address for Clint’s homestead from Natasha before catching a cab back to his own apartment. There’s supposed to be a pretty hefty snowfall on the way, so he hopes Natasha gets out of the city safely tonight.

 

He fumbles his keys between numb, gloved fingers as he returns home, coming to a stop when he looks down to see a gift-wrapped box sitting on his doorstep. There’s no return address anywhere on the package, or even his own address to indicate it was mailed at all. Someone had to have dropped it off personally. There’s a tag hanging off the ribbon wrapped around the box, simply addressed: Steve.

 

Curiously, he carries the mystery gift into his apartment, pushing the sliding door shut with his foot. After shedding his layers and hanging the damp, snow-ridden garments on his coat rack, he takes the box over to his coffee table, pondering what it could be for only another moment before tearing into the shiny gold and crimson paper.

 

A plain white box is waiting for him past the wrappings, Steve lifting the lid to see golden tissue paper and a folded note with chicken scratch handwriting in red ink that Steve would recognize anywhere.

 

_Steve,_

 

_Since you turned down the car I got you for your birthday, I figured maybe a bit of a smaller gift would be more appropriate. In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to go a bit overboard sometimes._

 

_I have no idea why you would want this when digital ones exist and have way better quality, but you always talk about how you’ve never been able to find one that worked the way your old one did back in the day. It was a bitch to track one down since they’re not really manufactured (or popular) anymore, but I hope it’s at least close to what you would want. If not, you can toss it in the garbage and we’ll never speak of this again._

 

_Merry Christmas._

 

_-Tony_

 

Already having an inkling as to what it could be, Steve carefully pulls out some of the glittery tissue paper to reveal a vintage Polaroid camera sitting in the box, along with a few small packets of what must be the film cartridges. In awe, Steve slowly lifts it out of the box, almost in disbelief at how close it is to his now obsolete camera that sits on a bookshelf in his bedroom as more of a momento than anything else. It had stopped functioning properly years ago, and just like Tony’s note had pointed out, Steve found it near impossible to find a replacement for it that actually works properly. With all the developments in film and photography, everyone has moved onto the digital space. While Steve can see the appeal and convenience of what digital cameras provide, there’s nothing quite like a point and shoot with an instant development, no fancy tricks. There’s too many buttons and settings on those new cameras anyway; Steve doesn’t even know where to start.

 

The model of camera Tony has given him is simple, plain, nothing flashy to it. It’s brown and tan with a few accents of white, and there’s a nice camera strap attached to it that looks like Tony picked it out himself, a dark brown with light blue stitching criss-crossing in a simple pattern across it. Steve lifts it experimentally to his eye to peer through the eyepiece, framing up a few different shots without actually pulling the trigger. He had loved photography as a kid, usually trying to capture all sorts of things that he could reference later when sketching.

 

He should call Tony and thank him. Steve knows that he’s probably suntanning on an exotic beach somewhere right about now, but he still has his home phone number written down in his address book and figures the least he can do is leave him a nice message to come home to next year. He holds the receiver of the phone to his ear, twisting the spiraling cord around his finger while he listens to the phone ring.

 

The sound cuts midway through the fourth ring. “Hello?”

 

Steve is almost too stunned to speak for a moment. “...Tony?”

 

“No, it’s Freddie Mercury,” Tony’s voice responds dryly. “I’m back from the dead to answer Tony Stark’s phone. What do you want, Steve?”

 

“You’re home,” Steve replies unhelpfully, brows still drawn up in confusion, briefly wondering if Tony has somehow rigged some kind of technological device so that he can remotely answer his home phone from hundreds of miles away.

 

“Very astute observation, Captain Obvious, you collect any accolades from the Nobel committee for your incredible discovery?”

 

“Uh, sorry, I expected to get your answering machine,” Steve scratches the back of his head. “What are you doing home? You’re normally gone during the break.”

 

He can hear some shifting on the other end of the line, Tony shrugging. “I normally go to the family vineyard in Italy but… It didn’t…” A sigh. “I don’t know. Didn’t feel right this year.”

 

Steve’s heart sinks. As complicated as Tony’s relationship had been with his parents, this would be the first year he would be spending the holidays with absolutely no family around him. “You’re spending Christmas by yourself?”

 

“Well, Pepper offered me to come spend it with her family but I just didn’t really feel like being around all of them right now. And the snow’s coming down too hard to bother with trying to go to any parties so… Yeah, I guess I am. Unless you consider my buddy Jack Daniels company.”

 

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Steve declares. “You can’t spend it drunk and alone in your apartment, Tony.”

 

“Hm, and yet here we are,” Tony heaves out a loud sigh. “What are you on about anyway? Aren’t you alone in _your_ apartment right now? Just because you’re probably sober and I’m not doesn’t mean shit.”

 

Tony’s right, he is alone right now, but he still has plans tomorrow to drive upstate and spend Christmas Day with Bucky. Tony doesn’t have anyone after an impossibly tough year. Impulsively, Steve hangs up the phone and immediately goes over to the door to pull his snow boots back on. In his surprise to speak to Tony at all, Steve realizes he also completely forgot to thank him for such a thoughtful gift. He places the camera back in the box and tucks it under one arm, haphazardly throwing on his scarf and hat before exiting the apartment.

 

The snow is still coming down in huge flakes, an abrupt gust of wind picking them up and blowing them directly into Steve’s face every now and again as he jogs down the street. Most of the sidewalks have been recently maintained, but he still has to be careful to dodge any icy patches. The roads are an absolute mess, traffic lower than Steve usually sees it as he runs the few blocks to Tony’s apartment, knowing he can get their faster on foot than a cab can make it in the inclement weather. He realizes halfway through the trek what a stupid idea this is, the biting cold tugging at his clothes and snow coming down impossibly hard. There’s supposed to be a blizzard that hits overnight, the promise of additional feet of snow already making itself known as it piles down around Steve.

 

He eventually makes it to the safety and warmth of Tony’s apartment lobby, breathing hard with extremely red ears and nose. The lobby is desolate, no staff or resident in sight but decorated lavishly with towering Christmas trees and tinsel hanging from the walls. Steve tries to unruffle his appearance in the elevator, shoving his hat and gloves in the pockets of his coat as he attempts to push his hair back into something that doesn’t quite resemble a bird’s nest.

 

His knocking at Tony’s door doesn’t receive a response at first, and Steve is worried that between the phone call and now Tony had somehow jetted off somewhere. His irrational fear is eventually qualmed when he hears some movement in the apartment after a few minutes.

 

Tony throws the door open, the suspicion on his face quickly turning into surprise. He blinks at Steve, even rubbing his eyes before he allows himself to accept the figure standing in front of him as reality. “Steve? What are you doing here?”

 

He doesn’t really know how to answer that question. He awkwardly shifts the box under his arm, looking down at it and then back at Tony. “I… I wanted to thank you for the gift.”

 

Tony continues to stare at him like he’s shown up on his doorstep with a second head growing out of his neck. “You couldn’t have done that on the phone?” He asks, mirth in his tone as he fights a smile.

 

“I wanted to thank you properly,” Steve responds, awkwardly shifting his weight to his other leg. “And, uh, check in on you. I guess.”

 

Tony still looks skeptical as he gives Steve a once-over, leaning casually against his door frame. “Did you run all the way here?”

 

“Maybe,” Steve hopes his blush just appears to be leftover from the weather’s impact.

 

With a sigh, Tony swings his door open and steps back into his apartment. “Well get in here and warm up, you lunatic. I don’t need any Ghosts of Christmas Anytimes to come visit me tonight because I sent you back into the blizzard without at least a spiked hot chocolate to get you through.”

 

Steve looks around the apartment as leaves his shoes by the door and follows Tony into the den. There are no decorations up, no indication that it’s the holiday season at all. Tony’s apartment feels dark and cold until they reach the living space where there is a warm glow provided by the fireplace, as well as some lights turned on behind the bar.

 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Tony asks, wandering back behind the bar. Steve can already see a couple of bottles of straight liquor on the floor by the couch, as well as an empty glass or two strewn across the coffee table back before Tony bothered with such a formality.

 

“We're you serious about that spiked hot chocolate?” Steve asks in all seriousness, shedding his layers. The apartment is much warmer than he expected, Tony himself walking around barefoot in sweats and a well-worn Electric Light Orchestra t-shirt.

 

Tony just smiles in response to the question and pulls out a tall mug before going to work. He’s got some fancy coffee machine that makes the hot chocolate for him, steaming the milk as he pulls out various bottles of liqueur. Steve watches as he makes the drink behind the bar like he’s been doing it his entire life, a bit of a scary thought, but not all that surprising considering who he’s dealing with here. Mixing in Rum Chata, Baileys, peppermint schnapps, and a shot of cinnamon-flavored whiskey, he then stirs in the actual hot chocolate aspect of the drink, tops it off with some mini marshmallows, and hands it to Steve.

 

The drink is delicious. It’s warm, sweet but not too sweet, has a clear alcohol kick to it but not in a way that’s overpowering, and Steve immediately takes another sip despite the worries of burning his own tongue. Tony walks past him to unceremoniously flop onto the couch, arm hanging off the side to grope around until his fingers enclose around the vodka bottle on the floor.

 

“This is really good,” he compliments as he gravitates towards the couch, having to push Tony’s legs aside so he can sit down too. Tony moves them momentarily before letting his feet settle back into Steve’s lap once he’s sitting.

 

“Thanks,” Tony croaks before taking a pull from the bottle. They drink in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the crackling of the fire, the city quiet beyond Tony’s floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains. Tony eventually speaks again. “Now what are you really doing here?”

 

He stares down at the steaming liquid in his mug, rotating it slowly between both hands. “I told you, the camera—”

 

“ _The_ _camera_ is a bullshit excuse. And so is just wanting to check in on me,” Tony shifts rolls his eyes. “But whatever you want to tell yourself.”

 

More silence. It stretches on, Steve realizing he’s drained the contents of the mug rather quickly, a lone mini marshmallow swirling in the barely-there remnants of what is left at the bottom.

 

“Have you used it yet?”

 

“What?”

 

Steve looks over at Tony to catch the tail-end of yet another eye roll. “ _The camera_ ,” he repeats slowly. “Take any pictures yet?”

 

“Oh,” Steve glances over where he left the box sitting on the bar countertop. “Actually, no, I haven’t. I kind of came straight here.”

 

Tony’s brow furrows. “Why are you thanking me for something you haven’t even used yet?” He waves a hand towards the box. “Go. Go get it. You have to try it out.”

 

Steve sets down his empty mug and moves Tony’s feet off of him to fetch the camera. He pulls it out of the box, letting the strap hang loosely as he walks back over to the couch and points the camera at a stone-faced Tony who has shifted into a lax sitting position, a throw blanket pulled off the back of the couch and into his lap. “Smile, Tony,” he chides.

 

The pitcher presents his middle finger, lips curving into the hint of a smile as the flash goes off. Steve watches as the film develops, plucking the square photo from the bottom of the camera once it’s finished. He gently waves it back and forth for a few seconds, helping the ink develop and dry before holding it out between them so Tony can watch it develop as well. The clarity of the image begins to sharpen, blobs of dark and light eventually shaping into the image of Tony. Steve looks down fondly at it. There’s hardly anything artistic or profound about the shot, but Tony’s personality shines through in it and Steve can’t help but smile.

 

“Alright, my turn,” Tony holds out his hand for the camera, fingers impatiently waving for him to hand it over.

 

“I prefer to be behind the lens,” Steve denies, holding the camera just out of reach. He does hate having his picture taken, but he’s gotten used to it after a while with his job.

 

“You don’t have to be a model, just let me take your damn picture,” Tony shifts closer, not making a grab for the camera, but just holding his hand out in request. Steve eventually relents, passing the camera to him. He can already feel the alcohol hitting his system. He isn’t a lightweight by any means, but he also doesn’t drink often enough beyond a beer or two to get that used to it. Tony had mixed in so many unfamiliar spirits and liquors that his system isn’t equipped to handle, and all it took was that one mug before he’s already feeling tipsy.

 

Steve runs a hand through his hair self-consciously as Tony holds the camera up to his eye, aiming it at him. He feels too awkward to flash a full-toothed smile, but hopefully his expression settles on something that doesn’t look quite like a grimace as the flash goes off.

 

“Do you really have to shake these?” Tony asks as the piece of film develops, pinching one corner carefully between two fingers.

 

“Just so it will dry. You don’t want to shake it too hard though because it could distort it,” Steve explains.

 

Tony scoots closer to him on the couch, holding the photo close to his face to watch it develop, giving it the occasional little flap through the air. “Not too shabby.” Once it’s developed completely, he passes it to Steve for his own approval.

 

The image is a little blurry because of Tony’s unsteady hands while holding the camera, but he’s right, it’s a pretty okay shot of him. Steve doesn’t love getting his picture taken, but there’s something soft and genuine in his expression as he looks directly into the lens— or rather, at the person behind it.

 

“Why did you come here, Steve?” Tony softly repeats his question from earlier.

 

Steve looks up from the photograph to see Tony only a few inches away from him, sitting beside him with his legs crossed, brown eyes open and earnest. They look too focused, almost unnaturally so. Even Steve is sure his gaze is a little more glossy at this point, and he hardly has anything on Tony as far as inebriation went. He feels his mouth go dry, tongue flickering out to wet his lips. “I didn’t want you to be alone?” He doesn’t mean it to come out as a question, voice sounding thin and unsure.

 

“Try again,” Tony urges.

 

Steve looks down at the two pictures in his lap, eyes lingering on the shot of Tony looking so comfortable and natural, this crude, attractive, integral little part of Steve’s life that he couldn’t imagine not having at this point.

 

“Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to be with you,” he corrects, confident now in his honesty. He meets Tony’s gaze again, hand instinctively reaching up to brush a limp lock of hair back from the man’s forehead. He lets his hand drift down, settling on cupping Tony’s face gently against his palm. He can feel a bit of two-day-old stubble against the heel of his hand, his thumb resting against his ear while the rest of his fingers curl attentively into the short hair on the nape of his neck. He leans forward, lips barely parting to ask, “Can I—?”

 

Tony’s mouth is immediately on his own, tasting of sugary sweet peppermint and spiced rum. He barely has time to flick the pictures onto the coffee table before he has a lap full of Tony, the other man wasting no time in straddling one of his thighs as he surges forward.

 

The kiss is uncoordinated, messy, and completely exhilarating. At first, Steve thinks his first instinct is to pull away, tell Tony “ _we can’t”s, “this is wrong”s, “we shouldn't be”s_  but his mouth is too interested in doing other things than voice any reasons to stop right now. His arms wrap easily around Tony’s waist, hands running up his back and pulling him closer. He sinks back into the couch thinking that Tony’s right and it _is_ pretty uncomfortable, but he’s too distracted with the man on top of him to be that concerned over it.

 

Tony’s mouth parts easily against his own, expert tongue coaxing into Steve’s mouth, firing synapses off in his brain. One of Tony’s hands quickly maneuvers all of the buttons open on his shirt, surprisingly deft despite the alcohol and not even breaking the kiss. Steve tries not to think about how experienced Tony is in doing all this, any concern leaving his brain the moment Tony rubs a hand down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his abs and sending a shudder through his body. He groans into Tony’s mouth, feeling himself harden as Tony presses the leg in between each of Steve's closer.

 

A hum of interest rumbles in Tony’s throat when he feels it too, Steve feeling his lips curve into a grin as his hand snakes lower. He feels the pressure of his hand wrap around his growing erection in his jeans, Steve’s hand instinctively shooting down to grab Tony by the wrist. He doesn’t move it away, but he doesn’t let go either. Tony breaks away from the kiss, Steve’s eyes snapping open almost sheepishly at his sudden reaction.

 

Tony’s pupils are blown wide, his eyes almost looking completely black in the lighting, the occasional shine of golden brown flickering into view from the firelight. There’s a desire in his eyes that Steve has never seen anyone fixate on him in a _long_ time, Tony’s cheeks and lips flushed as he raises an eyebrow. “This okay?” He asks, stilling his hand.

 

“Yes,” he answers almost immediately, having to clear his throat. “God, yes. Sorry— I haven’t— I just mean that I never—”

 

“Steeeve…” Tony interrupts lowly, slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

 

“No! I mean— Just with— with men, yes, I am, I guess…” He trails off awkwardly, wondering if he’s ruined this entire thing. Tony’s probably lost count of the amount of people he’s slept with while Steve could count them on one hand— Honestly, a couple of fingers.

 

Tony’s eyebrow climbs higher. He experimentally squeezes the bulge between Steve’s legs, beginning to rub his hand over the denim of his jeans. Steve squeezes his wrist tighter, but this time in coaxing him on as he tilts his head back, hips pressing closer. “And when’s the last time you slept with a woman?”

 

Steve closes his eyes in embarrassment. “It’s… been a while…”

 

Tony hums again. “Good to know you can still get it up.”

 

“Don’t start,” Steve growls, opening his eyes and sitting up to yank Tony back to him. Maybe men aren’t that different from women in the aspect of kissing at the very least, although the scrape of Tony’s very slight stubble against his chin is… new. It’s as soon as they get below the belt that Steve isn’t going to have any idea of what he’s doing. Technically, he has experience with his own cock, it’s handling others’ that he’s worried about. How is he supposed to figure out what Tony likes? What he doesn’t like? The upper half is different too, but maybe that means there’s less to deal with?

 

“You’re thinking too much,” Tony whispers against his mouth, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. He squeezes Steve’s erection again before clambering out of his lap, grabbing Steve’s arm to haul him to his feet.

 

“Where are we going?” Steve asks, pulling awkwardly at the crotch of his pants as he attempts to walk around the growing problem between his legs.

 

“My bed, where do you think?” Tony deadpans. “I have manners, I’m not going to suck you off on the couch like I’m some _animal._ ”

 

Steve stumbles after him, wondering exactly how big this apartment is as they wind around another five rooms. They finally reach Tony’s master bedroom, Steve not really getting a good look around in the darkness before Tony has him pressed up against the door and is stealing his breath away with another mind blowing kiss.

 

Still feeling out of his element, he settles his hands neutrally on Tony’s waist, pulling him closer. He doesn’t want to appear incompetent in every aspect of this, despite Tony knowing it’s his first time with a man. It’s odd letting someone else take the reins on things for once. In Steve’s experience, he’s only ever been with women who were very _docile_. Of course, no one looked at him twice before his growth spurt that came well into his baseball career, his muscles finally developing and some of the awkward features on his face balancing themselves out as he aged. Steve strikes a naturally imposing figure, but Tony doesn’t seem to care about any of those norms, easily taking control and guiding Steve along for the ride.

 

He lets Tony spin him around and walk him backwards to the bed, crawling into his lap yet again as he sits down on the foot of the massive bed. Experimentally, Steve slides his hands lower, holding Tony’s hips as he grinds them forward. He finally feels more than just a hint of hardness beneath Tony’s pants as the man straddles his lap again, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do with… that.

 

That particular dilemma is pushed off as Tony slides out of reach, dropping to his knees on the floor. He grabs Steve by the back of the calves and drags him forward slightly, nudging his legs open so he can reach up and undo his pants. Steve lifts his hips up, helping Tony slide them off along with his underwear. The relief of no longer being constricted and not having to worry about coming in his pants like a teenager intermingles with the sudden realization that he’s fully exposed in front of Tony.

 

Tony has seen him naked plenty of times before, but never in _this_ context. He feels absolutely debauched, leaning back on his arms on a silk sheet covered bed with his shirt hanging off his back and pants pooled around one ankle. He feels his face flush with heat as he looks down at the man between his legs, eyes blown wide with desire.

 

“Tony, wait—” Steve is cut off by his own gasp as Tony takes hold of the base of his shaft. His eyelids flutter for a moment at the sensation of actual contact, no layers in the way. When his eyes refocus, Tony’s eyes are still trained intently on his, long lashes casting shadows down his cheeks.

 

“Do you want to stop?” Tony asks, Steve’s eyes darting down to his mouth when he sees his tongue swipe across them.

 

 _No, no, no, no, god, no, please don’t stop_ , Steve thinks desperately, but his mouth has gone dry. His own adequacy gets the better of him, nerves bubbling up to the surface. “I just… I don’t want you to have to do that and me not… know how to return the favor,” he confesses.

 

He’s surprised to see a genuine smile break out of Tony’s steely expression, lifting them out of this sea of sensual abandon into something a little easier to manage. Just two people, two bodies, together at last. “Don’t worry about me for right now. Just let me make _you_ feel good,” he purrs before leaning forward and sealing his lips around the head of his cock.

 

Steve lets him do just that, sinking back onto his elbows and succumbing to the pleasure of Tony’s mouth as the snow continues to fall outside.

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams about the sensations. Tony’s tongue swiping over his sensitive flesh, the enveloping heat of his mouth, soft hair beneath his fingers as he cradles the back of Tony’s bobbing head, sucking him into the back of his throat without hesitation—

 

Steve jolts out of the memories suddenly, snapping his eyes open to meet total darkness. There’s a brief panic that everything that happened last night was actually all a dream, his deepest desires he didn’t realize he had coming true. He reaches out and gropes along the sheets, feeling nothing but a cold, empty space next to him.

 

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut and curling in on himself. So it had all been a dream, some sick fantasy Steve had kept holed away somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind. He chases the memories, clinging to them to desperately try to get them to stay even though he knows how quickly dreams evaporate into nothing tangible.

 

For some reason, these thoughts are sticking. Steve lets his eyes open again and he sits up, feeling around the bed once more. These aren’t his sheets. They’re soft and silky and not at all properly tucked in. And this bed is much bigger than his queen, a copious amount of pillows up against the massive headboard. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, Steve quickly realizes this isn’t his room at all.

 

He’s in Tony’s apartment.

 

There are blackout curtains keeping out all signs of light, which explains why Steve slept in so easily for once. In his own apartment, his curtains are gauzy and weak, really just there for show. The plastic blinds over his windows do very little to keep out the morning light, but here there’s thick fabric covering the floor-to-ceiling glass walls.

 

Dressed only in his underwear, Steve slides out of bed and gropes along the wall until he’s able to find a light switch. His clothes are still strewn about the floor, but he also notices something folded at the foot of the bed. It’s a set of his own sweats, Steve holding them up to see they are the clothes he had let Tony borrow after his melt down in the rain a few months back. He had completely forgotten ever giving them to him, touched that Tony had actually thought to set them out for Steve upon waking up.

 

Now dressed, he sets out on the insurmountable task of looking for Tony in the massive penthouse. As he exits the room, the rest of the apartment is dim, curtains still drawn in the main rooms with a few lamps turned on here and there. After enough aimless wandering, he can hear the sound of a steady bass line coming from somewhere above. He finds a spiral staircase in a tucked away den near the back of an apartment, ascending upwards closer to the sounds of guitar riffs and stadium-sized vocals.

 

He enters a spacious lofted area, squinting as he adjusts to the first room he’s been in where the light from outside is allowed to shine freely through the glass windows. Tony is hunched at his desk, scribbling things down on scattered papers while some kind of code seems to be running on his computer monitor. It’s reminiscent of the workshop Steve saw in the garage back at his family home in Malibu, but surprisingly more organized. There’s industrial shelving units along the walls housing all sorts of mechanical creations that don’t make sense to him, rolling carts full of tools and metal pieces placed around the room.

 

The music suddenly stops, Steve realizing he had just been staring around the workshop without actually announcing his presence. Tony has spun around in his chair now, and is staring blankly at him. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, taking a sip from a steaming mug.

 

“Morning…” Steve replies, voice still rough with sleep. He scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks for the clothes.”

 

Tony shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t thank me, they’re your clothes.” He spins back around in his chair to go back to his sketching.

 

Steve stands awkwardly in the quiet now, slowly drifting closer. “What time is it?”

 

Tony’s eyes flicker to the digital clock on his desk. “Half-past six.”

 

Oh, so not as late as he thought. “You’re up early,” he comments in amusement, grabbing a stool and pulling it closer so he can peer over Tony’s shoulder to see what he’s working on.

 

“I’ve been up since four,” he answers noncommittally, chewing on the end of his pencil for a moment.

 

“How are you always so late to practice if you get up that early?” He asks in amusement, watching as Tony scrubs an eraser over half his page before starting again. He then can see that Tony isn’t really sketching, but rather filling the page with all sorts of confusing looking formulas that Steve can’t begin wrap his head around.

 

“Because I go back to sleep,” Tony explains as if it should be obvious. “Human sleep cycles actually changed during the nineteenth century. Neurologically speaking, many of the great inventors and craftsmen had a broken sleep schedule where they’d wake up in the middle of the night at the peak of creativity, and then sleep again until after dawn.”

 

Steve hums. “Kind of sounds like an excuse to cover up that you drink too much booze and caffeine at all hours of the day and night so your circadian rhythm is out of whack and you just need to lay down for nap time.”

 

Tony’s smirks, not looking up from his papers. “By George, I think she’s got it.”

 

Steve smiles, finding that his gaze drifts over to watching Tony rather than the numbers and odd looking symbols on the page. There’s a small crease between his eyebrows, slightly furrowed in his concentration, the tip of his tongue occasionally peeking out of the corner of his mouth. He watches Tony’s hands, the slender digits, slight callouses along the pads of his fingers, faded scars and pockmarks on his tanned hands. It’s interesting how he’s watched Tony’s hands throw hundreds of pitches, but he just now knows the true range of their capabilities after feeling them touch him all over.

 

If Tony feels Steve openly staring at him, he doesn’t comment, focused in on his work like he’s alone by himself. “Merry Christmas, by the way,” Tony eventually mumbles, eyes flickering back and forth between the results on his computer screen and what he has written down in front of him.

 

Steve blinks. Shit. He’s been so discombobulated from the onslaught of new developments last night that he had completely forgotten why he had showed up to Tony’s in the first place, and what day it is now. He stands up, clutching at his head. “Oh— Uh, I actually— I have to go. I’m sorry, I completely forgot—”

 

“Uh, Steve,” Tony interrupts. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to the window.

 

It’s so bright outside that Steve hadn’t even bothered to really look out and see what the city is looking like. He has to squint again as he approaches, hand coming up to shield his eyes from the light just so he can squint out into the blinding whiteness. There’s not much for his eyes to adjust to, because the city does just look plain _white_. Blankets of snow cover the entire city below, Tony having an incredible view from his penthouse. The roads are completely covered, snow still falling from the sky in small, condensed flakes.

 

“Total blizzard last night. I know they were expecting a lot of snow, but not _this_ much,” Tony elaborates from behind him. “Everything is shut down right now. Some people don’t have power and a lot of the phone lines are down too. They’re advising people not to go outside until it lets up.”

 

“Shit,” Steve sighs, clutching at his forehead. “I had plans with someone…”

 

Tony’s oddly quiet from behind him. “Bucky?” He eventually asks, voice sounding forcefully blasé.

 

“Yeah. We’ve spent every Christmas Day together since we were kids. This is the first year we won’t be able to… I should’ve known better and left last night.” he sighs again, guilt washing over him.

 

Tony doesn’t reply, but he slides something down the table towards Steve. He looks over in confusion, seeing Tony’s compact cell phone sitting there. It’s got a sleeker design than any of the ones Steve sees advertised in the market, and it has to be because Tony built it himself.

 

“Call him. The cell’s got a built in signal amplifier so the landlines being down won’t affect it. You can let him know that you’re unfortunately stuck with me for the holiday,” he says crossly, turning away from Steve again to go back to work.

 

Steve flounders for a moment, realizing how his words may have come across. “Tony, I didn’t mean—”

 

“You’ll want to go downstairs, there’s concrete and aluminum in these walls that will interfere with the signal,” he interrupts before reaching over and turning his stereo back on. The blaring music leaves no further room for argument, Steve quietly picking up the phone and retreating back down the stairs. He feels awful for even implying in front of Tony that he didn’t want to be here, but he’ll have to find a time to apologize for that later. He knows the man well enough at this point to know his stubbornness has a time limit, and he’ll just need to wait it out.

 

Steve retreats to the living room, pulling the curtains apart by a few inches to let some light into the apartment. He tries Bucky’s cell first, knowing that if the phone lines are affected in the city, they might not be faring well upstate either.

 

“Hello?” There’s some slight static on the line, but Steve can make him out okay. “Steve?”

 

“Yeah, Buck, it’s me. I’m really sorry, I’m not going to be able to make it up there today.”

 

“I heard on the radio about the storm. We got some snow up here but it didn’t hit us nearly as bad as you guys,” Bucky says. “Don’t apologize, there’s nothing we can do about it. Are you safe? Everything okay at your apartment, got plenty of food and water and stuff? I heard things are kind of shut down everywhere.”

 

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m actually at a friend’s place,” Steve replies, deciding not to elaborate further than that. “But hey, I don’t want you to have to spend it totally alone. You remember Clint Barton right? His family doesn’t live too far from you. Natasha is up there now and she invited us over for dinner. I know I can’t make it but I think you should still go.”

 

“Hm,” Bucky ponders for a moment. “Yeah, I remember Barton, that guy’s pretty cool. Sure they won’t mind if it’s just me?”

 

“Of course not,” Steve finds his coat hanging on the back of a chair and reads off the address of their farm.

 

“You said Natasha will be there too, right?” Bucky asks, a familiar tone of interest in his voice. “So I’ll finally get to meet the elusive Coach Romanoff?”

 

Steve laughs. “Be on your best behavior,” He chides, thinking back to Natasha’s joking comment from last night about his friend’s current status.

 

“When am I not?” He can hear Bucky’s grin. “Thanks for letting me know about dinner. You said you were with a friend, right? One of your players I assume?”

 

Steve hesitates. “Actually, it’s Sam. Yeah, he’s in town and I got a few drinks with him and crashed at his place last night.”

 

“Ah. Well, I guess there’s worse people to be snowed in with, right?”

 

“Right,” Steve agrees, eyes drifting back towards the ceiling. “I should let you go. Sorry again about not being able to make it.”

 

“No worries, man. Maybe I’ll make it down for New Years. And, hey, call me if you need anything, alright?”

 

“Will do. Merry Christmas.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Steve.”

 

He hangs up the phone and stares at it for a moment. He does feel a little better after talking to Bucky, but for some reason he was unable to tell the truth about who he’s with. Is he ashamed? Does he fear what kind of questions Bucky would ask if he knew it was Tony who he spent the night with? He doesn’t think Bucky would jump to any conclusions, but what if he did? Would Steve be able to lie to him?

 

The only question he knows he can answer is the first one. He’s not ashamed of what happened with Tony, nor of his feelings for the man. He stands up from the couch and heads back towards the loft, knowing he needs to clear that up straight away and make his intentions clear.

 

“Tony?” He calls up the stairs, deciding to announce his presence this time. The music is still playing but is quieter than before, so surely Tony can hear him. He gets to the top of the stairs and sees why there’s no response.

 

Tony is asleep at the desk, head resting on his folded arms in front of him with his mouth hanging open slightly. All of the prepared defenses and explanations he had go out the window, some of the tenseness leaving his shoulders as he approaches. He shuts off the stereo and plucks the pencil from behind Tony’s ear to set it down on the desk. As gently as possible, he maneuvers Tony to lean back in his chair so he can get his arms behind his back and under his legs to scoop him up bridal style and carry him downstairs.

 

“Hmm?” Tony sighs sleepily, eyelids fluttering without opening all the way. “I was… list’n to that…” he mumbles, tucking his face into Steve’s chest. “...m’work’n…”

 

“I know you were,” Steve sighs, expression softening as Tony relaxes in his arms and falls back into REM sleep. The stairwell is narrow, but he manages to carefully make his way down the metal steps without jostling Tony too much or taking a tumble himself. The smaller den area beneath the loft is a bit more cozy than the formal living room out by the main entrance. There’s a rectangular space lowered into the floor by a couple of steps, Steve gently setting Tony down in an armchair with pillows on it that at least look cozier than the angular leather couch in the other room.

 

He pulls a blanket off the back of the sofa and lays it over Tony despite the apartment being perfectly heated. Steve wonders how long these little naps of Tony’s usually take, but he supposes he can estimate it given the time he normally rolls into the Polo Grounds.

 

While Steve is sure there are countless things to do in Tony’s apartment, it feels strange to just wander around and poke in his things. His stomach contests loudly and he decides if he’s going to invade Tony’s privacy, it might as well be somewhere harmless like the kitchen.

 

Somehow, he’s not surprised to see mostly bare cabinets and a fridge containing very little in the way of actual ingredients to make any sort of meal, but instead an array of takeout containers and pre-prepped meals stacked up in the freezer. Steve sighs and pulls out a plastic container of curry, veggies, and rice, figuring it’s his best bet. He cooks himself two fried eggs, bacon, and toast every morning, so maybe a little change is nice. He eats his breakfast in the kitchen and tries to fiddle through channels on Tony’s radio. A lot of it is just fuzzy static, but he manages to find a few stations occasional reporting updates on the weather. The snow isn’t supposed to stop anytime soon, but will hopefully not dump another few feet on them overnight. They’re expecting it to be clearable within the next couple of days, but for now everyone is told to stay indoors.

 

Tony is still fast asleep when he makes his way back into the den, grabbing a book off one of Tony’s bookshelves to absentmindedly flip through while he waits for the other man to wake up. It’s hard at first to pick something that isn’t either in a foreign language, or has to do with theoretical math and scientific theories, but he makes do with a book about the history of product design so there’s at least something interesting he can relate to.

 

Another hour passes before Tony begins to stir, the blanket falling to the floor as he stretches his legs out and drags himself into a sitting position. His hair is matted on one side, a bit of dried drool on the corner of his mouth that he wipes off on his sleeve. Even then, Steve can’t help but think he looks terribly attractive.

 

“Hey,” he greets sleepily, mouth opening in a wide yawn. “How long was I out?”

 

“Just a couple of hours,” he closes the book and sets it down on the coffee table, patting the spot next to him. “Come here.”

 

Suspicion crosses Tony face but he unfolds himself from the chair and sits down next to Steve, posture oddly rigid. Without hesitation, Steve cups his face and draws him in close for a kiss.

 

It’s just as electric as he remembers from the night before, but now with them both sober, everything is crisp and clear. A small sigh escapes Tony’s lips and Steve takes it as invitation to slide his tongue into his mouth, stroking his thumb gently across Tony’s cheekbone. Tony is the first to break the kiss, his lips still shiny and pink as he pulls back to look at him. “What was that for?”

 

“To say sorry, for how I came across earlier. I’m really happy I’m here,” he presses another few short kisses to Tony’s mouth. He’s still unsure of how to go about all this, but for now he does whatever feels natural.

 

“Are you?” Tony asks, fingers curling into the edge of Steve’s collar. “You don’t… regret last night?”

 

He’s never heard Tony sound so unsure of anything. He’s avoiding Steve’s eyes, vulnerability not a particular strong suit of his. “No,” he assures Tony, holding him by the chin and forcing his gaze up. “Honestly, I surprised myself for even coming here in the first place but… I guess I knew the feelings were there. At the time I just wanted to see you.”

 

Tony initiates the next kiss, running his hands through Steve’s short locks and pulling him down on top of him. The grip in his hair tugs his head back enough for Tony to mouth at his neck, Steve unable to hold back a groan at the sensation of Tony’s warm tongue against such a sensitive area. He can already feel himself getting turned on as Tony begins to suck and bite along his throat, blood rushing down south as the rest of his body begins to take interest. It’s an immediate reaction as he’s reminded of the sensations from last night, thinking of Tony’s talented mouth going to much more sensitive places.

 

He places a hand on Tony’s chest and lifts himself up slightly, hovering above him on the couch. He hates himself for doing it, but he can’t let himself get too caught up in the physical aspect of things and endanger how he really feels. “I… I think I need to take things slow.” He smiles sheepishly. “You okay with that? This is all still very, _very_ new...”

 

Tony smiles up at him, easily shifting back to a sitting position. He combs his fingers through Steve’s hair one last time, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “So the student becomes the master…”

 

“Oh my god, shut up.”

 

They spend the rest of the day testing boundaries as they busy themselves around the apartment. They trade casual touches and longing glances as they prepare more leftovers in the kitchen, sit in the loft together while Tony works and Steve finds some blank paper to sketch on. They end up sitting next together on the couch to watch some movies as the evening winds on, experimentally getting closer to each other until they’re doing what is unmistakably _cuddling_ , bodies pressed together and limbs tangled as they spoon on the couch.

 

Tony’s back his pressed against his front, his attention more often than not drifting away from the screen to instead focus on the soft looking skin on the nape of his neck, thinking about how badly he wants to kiss him there— how much he wants to let the arm wrapped around his waist drift lower so he can touch Tony the way he was touched last night…

 

He’s not ready for all that quite yet, despite what the thing between his legs wants. Steve does lean forward and press his lips against the shell of Tony’s ear, feeling the man flinch slightly in surprise as he breathes against it. “Will you play for me?” He asks softly, nodding towards the stark white grand piano in the room, elevated on a small stage by the bar area.

 

Tony huffs out a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “That's just for show; I don’t play.”

 

“Yes you do. I heard you at your parents’ house.”

 

Tony twists around in his arms, staring at him in surprise. “You did?”

 

Steve nods, nudging his chin against his shoulder. “Yes, and I liked it. So will you play? Please?”

 

Tony’s mouth screws up slightly as he contemplates it for a moment. With a sigh he extracts himself from Steve’s grasp and walks over to the piano. He runs his fingers along the smooth surface of it before he sits down on the bench and lifts the key cover. Steve shifts to sit up so he can see Tony better. He absentmindedly runs his fingers over the keys for a few moments, reassociating himself with all eighty-eight of them. Something changes in his posture, a sort of diligence that only a strict piano instructor could’ve enforced on him time and time again from a young age. Elbows held at a careful angle, wrists relaxed, he extends one foot towards the pedals on the ground and takes a deep breath before he begins to play.

 

The melody is unfamiliar at first, but Steve soon recognizes it as the same song he had heard drifting out of the Starks’ mansion parlour from a couple of years ago. Tony plays more confidently now, as if he’s not quite as unfamiliar with the instrument as he was to times prior. As the music swells, Steve finds himself on his feet and gravitating closer.

 

Without breaking tempo, Tony slides over slightly to make room for Steve next to him on the bench. He sinks down, careful not to interrupt Tony's playing. The song has shifted slightly, his fingers dancing across the keys in a more intricate melody now. It eventually slows back down in a decrescendo until the last chord rings through the room, Tony’s hands slipping off the keys and into his lap.

 

“What song was that?” Steve asks quietly, almost hating to follow up such beautiful refrain with his own boring, flat voice.

 

“ _Des pas sur la neige m_ ,” Tony answers softly. “Footprints in the Snow, with a little Arabesque No. 1 thrown in at the end… Debussy was my mom’s favorite.”

 

“It’s beautiful…” Steve leans in closer, coming to a stop with his nose pressed alongside Tony’s. They share breaths for a moment, Steve letting Tony make the decision to break through the last inch of space separating them. Tony kisses him as gingerly as he had played the song, no overtly sexual energy in the exchange, but the same butterflies are stirred up in Steve's stomach. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Tony’s. “Will you play some more?”

 

Tony smiles softly and nods, pressing one more chaste kiss to Steve’s lips before he turns his attention back on the keys and continues to play until they’re both tired enough to retreat to the safety and warmth of Tony’s bed.

 

* * *

 

 

The days continue to tick by, time spent in a similar fashion. Tony’s a very gracious host, minding his own business and giving Steve plenty of space to have some time to himself so they don’t drive each other _too_ crazy while cooped up in the same living space. For a few hours a day, he holes up in his workshop, not really caring if Steve is there or not as long as he sticks to the background while he works. There’s a home gym in the apartment that Steve takes advantage of, happy he has the chance to get out some of his energy and not deviate too far from his normal schedule so he doesn’t go stir crazy. When they are together, Tony is pretty good at finding entertaining enough joint activities for them to take part in. Some of them are innocent: watching movies, playing chess and board games, arguing about baseball strategies, even rearranging some of the artwork hanging on his walls. However, they also take advantage of their many hours of the day being unable to leave their residence by Tony slowly introducing Steve into the intimacies of same-sex intercourse.

 

Steve is grateful that Tony is the one he’s discovering this aspect of his sexuality with. He’s kind and patient even as Steve awkwardly tries to fumble his way through figuring out what works best for both of them. They take things slow, Tony insisting Steve just sit back and relax while he _demonstrates_ for him. He hates the feeling of just being a passive party in this, but also doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. Tony insists time after time “I’m fine” and “Let’s focus on you”, always bringing Steve to completion without even touching himself.

 

The most daring thing he’s managed so far is inviting Tony into the shower with him after a morning workout where he sidles up behind him, and reaches around to pull him off. Each experience has been steamier than the last, this one both figuratively _and_ literally. He doesn’t let himself get too caught up in the semantics of it, their position making it easy to just close his eyes and imagine it’s just him jerking off as normal. Of course, it doesn’t feel quite the same considering his hand is wrapped around a cock that’s definitely _not_ his own, but it’s also the first time he gets the chance to take Tony apart for once.

 

The sounds that spill out of his mouth are absolutely heavenly, head tilted back in euphoria with one hand bracing himself against the tile wall while the other reaches up and backwards to hold onto Steve by the hair. Steve experiments with his strokes, eyes closed as he curls his body into Tony’s, face pressed into the back of one shoulder. With an arm wrapped around his middle, he feels every little cue the pitcher’s lithe body gives off, switching up the pace or the angle in accordance to whatever garners the best reaction. Steve doesn’t need anything further to bring himself pleasure, his own erection settled against the curve of Tony’s ass. There are times when Tony’s hips begin to move so sporadically that all Steve really has to do is hold out his loose fist for him to fuck, but he manages to get his other hand on Tony’s hip, fingers digging in to hold him still so he can bring him off properly.

 

All it takes to push Steve over the edge is hearing his name fall from Tony’s lips accompanied by a slew of curses. The sound triggers something so visceral inside of him that he’s worried he might get a hard-on in the middle of practice when Tony’s sailor’s mouth decides to make its usual frustrated appearance. He comes all across Tony’s back, the evidence of it quickly washed away beneath the spray of water. He continues to stroke Tony as he comes down from his orgasm, stopping only when he feels the man go slack in his arms, having to hold up his weight so they don’t both go slipping to the shower floor.

 

“Okay then,” Tony eventually pants out, leaning back into Steve’s chest. “You’re a pretty fast learner. That was… Wow. Good. Really good.”

 

He sounds genuinely impressed, and not like he’s just saying it for Steve’s sake. He glows with both embarrassment and pride by the praise, ducking his face into the back of Tony’s neck as he tugs him fully under the showerhead so they can properly rinse off.

 

All in all, being trapped inside an apartment with a ticking time bomb personality like Tony for days isn’t nearly as awful as someone might expect. And the sex is… well, that’s just an added bonus. An extremely nice bonus that Steve is enjoying very, _very_ much.

 

“Let’s go play outside,” Tony says simply on the morning of New Year’s Eve. They’re laying in bed next to each other. His head is pillowed on Steve’s bare chest, hand drawing absent minded circles across his stomach.

 

There’s still a slight sheen of sweat on Steve’s body, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath after Tony had decided this morning he would be introducing Steve to the world of being woken up by a blowjob. “What?” He asks in amusement, craning his neck to look down at the top of Tony’s head.

 

The pitcher sits up, a juvenile spark in his eye as he bounces on the bed slightly, giving Steve a little shove. “Come on, they finally cleared people to start leaving their homes and the streets are getting cleaned up today. We should go out and take advantage while we still can.” He’s already climbing off the bed and going over to his closet, pulling clothes out of dressers to begin layering up. “Besides, I figure this is our last day together, so we should do something fun before you go home.”

 

Home. Right. Steve has gotten so caught up in this whirlwind of the past few days holed up in Tony’s apartment that he’s almost forgotten there is an entire life waiting outside. He feels detached from that world now, not realizing that he’ll have to go back eventually.

 

He watches Tony getting dressed so casually, not a care in the world. A cold, creeping feeling prickles at the back of Steve’s mind. How often does Tony do this? How many people have spent the night falling apart beneath his touch in this very bed? He knows Tony has a reputation as a playboy, even if he explained it’s just keeping the media off his scent. But Steve knows Tony’s nature and how charismatic he is, and he already caught him once with a valet in his bed. How many more “valets” were there, and was Steve just another notch in his bed post?

 

He would like to think it isn’t like that between them. Surely Tony can’t fake the kind of connection they’ve had these past few days. All the sidelong glances, the tender touches, quiet moments just spent in each other’s company. Tony is such a lonely person that Steve can’t imagine _anyone_ has been let into his space the way Steve has during these past few days.

 

“Come on, lazy bones, get dressed,” Tony tosses a heap of winter clothes towards his face, already completely outfitted in snow pants and snow jacket himself, a woolen hat pulled down over his ears with the ends of his hair flipping out from beneath it.  He hurries out of the room, Steve listening to the sound of water-proofed nylon rubbing against itself fade into the distance.

 

He sighs and throws the blankets off himself, picking through all the items of clothing Tony threw at him. They fit surprisingly well, Steve wondering if these are all just oversized clothes Tony never got altered properly. He dresses slowly, lingering in Tony’s space as he passes through the apartment, wondering if he’ll ever get to experience anything like this ever again.

 

“Snow’s gonna melt before we get out there if you keep moving at that pace!” Tony yells from down the hallway, front door of his apartment left open. His exuberance chips away at some of the jaded edges of Steve’s thoughts, a smile on his face as he follows Tony into the elevator.

 

Feet of snow are piled up outside, completely covering cars on the street, windswept up against the fronts of buildings and storefronts. The past few days have been without precipitation, but the temperature has still been far below freezing, leaving the snow to settle into perfect packing snow for a winter’s day like this. The blanket of gray clouds in the sky has cleared up this morning, the sun shining brightly down to make the snow sparkle. Tony’s right, the city will probably have trucks out later today to start clearing the snow away, especially if it gets warm enough to naturally melt some of it away. By tomorrow, the roads will probably be clear enough for Bucky to make his way down for some New Years Day designated best friend time.

 

Steve tries not to feel sad about it, tromping down the street after Tony. Each step sinks in to their shins, one misstep on Tony’s part sending him sinking into a snow drift up to his waist. Steve almost starts crying with laughter as he tries to help pull Tony out of it, the two of them inevitably sinking in further as if it’s quicksand. They eventually get out of it, collapsing onto their backs into the snow to recover. Steve turns his head to look at Tony who’s starfished on the ground next to him, eyes shut and a huge grin on his face as he catches his breath.

 

“Hey, Tony?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Tony turns to look at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. His cheeks are flushed, the light on the snow reflecting back to literally light up his face as he stares at Steve with those deep, earnest eyes.

 

“ _This_ isn’t going to end, is it?” He blurts out, afraid that if he holds in those tumultuous thoughts any longer that he’ll implode on himself. “After I go home? After we go back to the team? Are things going to be… different between us now?”

 

Tony flashes him a confused look, but there’s still a small smile on his face. “Steve, I’m pretty sure things got _different_ between us the minute I had your cock down my throat.”

 

Steve sighs. “You know what I mean.”

 

Tony’s jovial expression flickers for a moment, letting the weight of Steve’s question settle in on him. He sits up, white powder still clinging to his jacket. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I don’t really do the _relationship_ thing, for obvious reasons. I can’t be open and honest with who I really like or my life would be over, and I also can’t expect anyone to keep things a secret so… I just don’t do things to get attached.” He shifts slightly, looking over his shoulder at Steve. “I think you shouldn’t overthink it. Things are the same between us as they were before, they’re just a little more fun now. Let’s just keep things on the down low, enjoy what we’ve got, and not let anything get too serious beyond that, yeah?”

 

A long stretch of silence passes between them after that. Steve closes his eyes and lets his head hit the snow again, wondering if he shouldn’t have said anything at all. His spiral into uncertainty is quickly interrupted by a cold and wet force smacking directly into his face. He immediately bolts into a sitting position, wiping the slush from his eyes to look up and see Tony grinning at him, innocently brushing some snow dust off of his gloved palms.

 

“Oh, so that’s how we’re going to play,” he growls, immediately digging his hands into the snow to start packing a snowball in retaliation.

 

Tony is yelling as he sprints away from Steve as fast as he can up the street, ducking and weaving as Steve takes chase, firing snowballs at him with expert aim. He nails Tony in the back on more than one occasion, the pitcher able to dodge out of the way if he dares stop to look over his shoulder.

 

“Hey!”

 

They both stop and turn when they hear a voice call out to them as they pass by an empty intersection. On the street perpendicular to theirs, there’s a small group of five or six kids on a makeshift hill, letting out peals of laughter as they sled down it, with a few off to the side taking on the project of building a snowman that’s already almost twice their height. They’re all still a few yards away, a lone girl broken off from the pack who caught Tony and Steve running by.

 

She walks closer to them, blonde pigtails sticking out from underneath her knit hat, two fuzzy bobbles on the top of it. Her eyes are wide as she stares up at them, looking to be about eight years old. “You’re Tony Stark!” She points excitedly at him before whirling around to look at Steve, face lighting up. “And Steve Rogers! You guys are Avengers, aren’t you?”

 

Steve and Tony exchange glances with a smile. Steve kneels down in front of her. “We are, nice catch there. What’s your name?”

 

“I’m Annie!” She announces excitedly. “Oh my gosh, will you guys come and play with us? My brothers will never believe this!”

 

Steve glances back at Tony who gives him a shrug. “Sure, why not?” Steve straightens up and lets the little girl seize him by the sleeve and start dragging him towards the rest of her friends, little bobbles bouncing back and forth on her head as she hurries along.

 

“Mike! Joey! Look, look, look! I found Steve Rogers and Tony Stark!”

 

“Yeah right, Annie! You’re full of crap!”

 

“Hey! Mom said don’t say _crap_ in front of Annie!”

 

The rest of the kids appear to be a little older than Annie, the two arguing brothers standing at the top of the sledding hill with their hands on their hips. One of them, the taller of the two, squints harder as Annie approaches, realization dawning on his face. “Holy shit!”

 

The shorter brother elbows him in the side. “If we can’t say _crap_ in front of Annie, I definitely don’t think we’re allowed to say _shit."_

 

Annie’s brothers immediately come rushing down the hill, not even bothering with the sleds. The kids building the snowman at the base of the hill come running up when they catch wind of the celebrities among them, immediately clamoring for attention, throwing out questions about baseball and the other Avengers.

 

“Oh my gosh, Tony, you’re like, my hero!”

 

“I wanna be as good as you one day!”

 

“I play shortstop too, Steve!”

 

“You guys are so freakin’ cool!”

 

“Is your knee okay?”

 

“Tony, I think you’re the best pitcher _ever_ but my dad doesn’t agree and I always tell him how wrong and dumb and old he is!”

 

It takes some time to reign them all in, Steve feeling a little overwhelmed with all of the attention. He does his best to address all the kids as well as he can, used to this part of the job when walking outside of the stadium to say hello to fans, or getting stopped in public by parents with their children. The small herd is definitely full of energy and Steve glances over to see how Tony is faring with this. Where he wouldn’t really expect Tony to have the patience to deal with children, he actually seems to be thriving under their spitfire questions and praise.

 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Tony quiets them all down, holding up his arms. “How about we have a good old fashioned snowball fight? Does that sound fun to you guys?”

 

He’s immediately met with a chorus of cheers, all the kids falling into an argument over who gets who on each team. The eventually manage to all split up, little Annie immediately clinging on to Tony’s arm insisting he be on her team because she’s his biggest fan.

 

They split up to take opposite sides of the street, agreeing on ten minutes to build a fort before the snowball war will begin. Of course with Tony’s engineering mind, their snow fort turns out to be the more expert of the two built, but Steve has always felt like an underdog, so why would this be any different?

 

They duck behind their snow forts and immediately start readying up ammo, Steve counting down before each side starts sending off their barrage of snowballs. Tony is unsurprisingly accurate and fast with his throws, purposefully ignoring any of the minors as targets and only aiming for Steve’s face. They clearly have a better defense with the ridiculous fortress Tony had managed to scrape together in ten minutes, so there’s only one logical thing to do: go on the offense.

 

“Hey, Joey!” Steve gets the boy’s attention, pointing over to one of their abandoned sleds at the bottom of the hill, beside one of the cars. “Sneak over there and grab me that sled, I have an idea.”

 

Snowballs stop coming from Team Steve’s side of the fort, Tony popping his head up cautiously. “You guys ready to wave that white flag or what?” He called over the empty space.

 

“Ready?” Steve asks the small conga line of children behind him, met with excited nods. “Okay, now!”

 

They run out from behind their fort, round plastic sled raised up in front of Steve to block the snowballs as the children behind them let out their battle cries. The children on Team Tony immediately start screaming as well, furiously chucking snowballs with no avail. The makeshift shield blocks every last one, Steve charging forward until the kids are forced to scatter as he goes crashing into the fort.

 

Everyone falls into the ground in a heap, laughing and still screaming as rogue snowball throwers scramble to their feet to keep the battle going. The kids are playing dirty now, attempting to shove snow down each other’s pants and go back to pick up the other sleds to use as shields as well. Steve gets to his feet, wiping some snow off him when Tony suddenly tackles him to the ground, a shower of snow accompanying them as the kids start kicking it up in the air.

 

Tony and Steve laugh together, tangled up as they roll around in the snow until they’re both dripping wet and shivering. After coming nose to nose, they share a private smile between them before breaking apart, Tony immediately getting nailed in the back of the head by a snowball. He whirls around in fake anger pointing accusationally at the group of giggling children. “Alright, which one of you little buggers threw that?!” He scrambles off of Steve to immediately start chasing them down, a child-like glee on his face.

 

As things start to wind back down, Steve sits on the hood of one of the snowed-in cars, shedding a few layers to try and shake some snow free from his jacket. He’s content to sit off to the side, a couple of the kids waving their goodbyes as they head home, parents’ calling them back inside from the windows above until all that’s left are Annie and her brothers who have returned to the abandoned snowman at the base of the hill. He only has eyes for Tony as the man helps the kids out with the structural integrity of their awkwardly sized golem, directing the children on the best way to pack and roll a head for it. He’s listening attentively to their youthful chatter, nodding and answering whatever questions they have for it, asking them questions in return. It’s touching to watch, Steve feeling his affection for the man grow as he lifts little Annie on top of his shoulders so she can decorate the face of their creation, sharing high fives with the boys when it’s finally complete.

 

Maybe Tony doesn’t do the “relationship” thing, but Steve is pretty content to have whatever _this_ is, for as long as he can hold on.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather than spend yet another author's note talking about how sorry I am for taking so long to update (very), I'll instead use it to point out that this chapter ended up being waaay beefier than I expected (another 30k+ lmao) and I ended up writing so much that I extended the story by another chapter!! What was formally a seven Chapter fic will now be EIGHT whole chapters!! And that's including an epilogue.
> 
> As always, I love this fic more than anything and hope you guys are enjoying it too. I'm still sticking to saying I'm going to TRY and update within about 3 weeks, but uhhhhhh we'll see!!!


	6. Defensive Indifference

May, 1993

 

Tension is high as Steve watches the game from the sidelines. He can almost feel his knee flaring up in protest, even if it’s nothing more than a phantom pain. He played for the first half of the game, and they had been ahead, but now they’ve slipped under their opponents thumb within the last couple of innings. They’re at the end of the rope, bottom of the ninth, with only one player on second, and two outs already. Lang is up to bat, but Steve’s eyes are trained on their sole runner.

 

Tony’s bouncing slightly on his feet, shifting his weight back and forth as he edges further and further off of second base. Steve immediately recognizes the look on his face and stares down his teammate, almost willing him to look over at him.

 

To no surprise, Tony does glance his way. He quirks an eyebrow at him, eyes flickering towards third base.

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Steve mouths, giving a stern shake of his head. “ _Don’t you dare, Tony._ ”

 

Tony, the little shit, _grins_ at him. Broad and toothy, that familiar glint in his eye before he becomes a blur. Movement as quick and agile as a feral cat, he tears towards third base —

 

And gets tagged out. Outcry rises up from the stands as the ref blows the whistle for their third and final out in the ninth inning, the Avengers losing 6-4. Steve’s hands go up to his hair in frustration, pulling at the roots as he watches his teammates walk off the field. It’s not so much the loss that has his frustration rising, but the fact that, yet again, Tony decided to go against his direction in some wild card attempt at a last-second win.

 

Tony attempts to glide right past him towards the dugout, but Steve catches him by the back of his untucked jersey. “What the hell was that?” He snaps in annoyance.

 

Tony pushes his hand off and keeps walking. “Oh, don’t even go there. We were going to lose either way, I figured I’d at least try and give us an advantage. We both know Lang wasn’t going to get a double.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Steve insists, following after him. “That pitcher had been watching you for the entire inning. You were not going to get away with that steal.”

 

“Oh my god, _who cares_?” Tony groans loudly. They’re surrounded by their other teammates who are casting sidelong glances at each other, flashing wide eyes and raised eyebrows. _There go Stark and Rogers, at each other’s throats again_.

 

“Clearly not you!” Steve says, exasperated.

 

“Quit your arguing, boys,” Natasha barks as they all make their way back to the locker room. “Tony, Steve’s right, you shouldn’t have gone for that steal. Steve, get off Tony’s ass about it, he really just ended the game quicker for us. Now the rest of you gather round so I can tell you everything you fucked up on today.”

 

Natasha’s schpiel is longer than usual, Steve zoning out for most of it to glare over at Tony. He’s covered in dirt and grass stains, leaned against the locker so clearly pleased with himself, making comments under his breath to Bruce who tends to receive them with an eye roll and a smile. He occasionally catches Steve’s eye and his smirk only spreads.

 

Tony’s riling him up on purpose. It’s something Steve is used to by now, especially with the new developments in their relationship. There’s been countless times where they’ll end a practice or a game bickering and sniping at each other, then take their own cars back to either of their apartments where they immediately fall back into the relationship no one sees. Whatever trivial thing they had been fighting over is completely forgotten behind closed doors. For some reason, today has been exceptionally more button-pushing, old habits apparently dying hard.

 

Natasha dismisses them to the showers but calls Tony over to talk to him privately. Steve lingers in the locker room for a while longer, clearing out some things from his locker, shuffling around clothes in his duffel bag, really just killing time. He waits until most of the team finishes up and leaves before he grabs a towel and heads to the showers, glancing over his shoulder to see that Natasha is still chatting with Tony, seemingly amiable in their discussion.

 

The amount of remaining Avengers dwindles further as Steve remains in the showers, catching Tony’s naked figure out of his periphery as he finally makes his way over. There’s only a few players left, plenty of available showerheads. Tony takes a stall on the opposite wall of Steve’s, in the far corner of the room. Every time Steve throws a cursory glance over his shoulder, doing his best to be subtle about it, Tony is still facing away from him, humming a random tune to himself as he lathers up with soap and starts to scrub the day’s grime off of him.

 

Steve washes the same part of his back for the next five minutes, rubbing his neck underneath the hot water to soothe his aching muscles. Within the next ten minutes, the last of the players depart from the showers, giving cursory farewells to Steve and Tony on their way out. Steve doesn’t move from his stall, listening for silence in the other room. The showers are offset from the main locker room by a short hallway as the only separation. He’s able to hear the echoing sounds of conversation as the last of their teammates exit, hearing the loud exit door of the stadium open and clang shut. Then, there’s silence aside from the rushing water.

 

Steve shuts off his shower and turns to see Tony is staring at him, one dark eyebrow quirking upwards in a challenge. He leans casually against the linoleum wall, practically _posing_ with everything out on display.

 

Steve’s bare feet slap against the wet tile floor as he stalks across the room towards him. He doesn’t hesitate to back Tony up against the wall, hands on his shoulders as he steps under the shower’s warm spray. “Any reason in particular you were so defiant today?”

 

“Maybe I was hoping you’d punish me,” Tony suggests in a low voice, tilting his head back and resting it against the tile wall. He exposes the long line of his throat to Steve, reaching out to grasp his cock that’s already at half mast.

 

While there’s been the occasional lingering glance or playful slap to the ass in passing while in the locker rooms, Tony’s never been this forward. Steve glances back to the hallway just to make sure there’s no moving shadows or sounds coming from the locker room indicating anyone being around. When he faces forward again, he watches as Tony sinks down to his knees and doesn’t hesitate in taking Steve into his mouth.

 

“Oh,” Steve breathes out in surprise, bracing his hands against the wall and letting his head go slack. Warm water rushes down the back of his neck and along his jawline, dripping down onto Tony who doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are closed as he bobs his head, Steve quickly hardening in that hot channel.

 

He hears the swoosh of the door opening and the metal clang as the large push handle rattles loosely when it swings shut. His head immediately snaps up, looking back over his shoulder at the entrance to the showers. “Tony,” he hisses, tapping the top of his head. His warning is ignored, Tony simply hollowing his cheeks and sliding him further into his mouth.

 

Steve grips the top of the separator, his other hand curling into a fist in the back of Tony’s hair. He wants to pull him off, but his mouth and throat feel so good that he can’t bear to force him away. His hips stutter slightly as he hears footsteps coming down the hallway, turning to see Clint poking his head around the corner.

 

“Oh, hey, Steve. Have you seen Tony?”

 

Steve has to swallow down a moan, blinking and wiping some water off from his face. “Uh, no— check the locker r-room?” He bites down on his lip as Tony deepthroats him, no regard for him struggling to keep cover.

 

“Nah, I just looked all around he’s not there, but his car’s still here so I know he’s around,” Clint scans the showers again, now giving Steve an odd look. Despite the shower stalls having about a foot tall gap from the bottom of the floor, Steve knows they’re at a good enough angle that there’s no way Clint would be able to see Tony on his knees in front of Steve from his viewpoint. “You okay, man? You’ve been in here a while.”

 

“Oh— Uh, yeah I— Y’know, I’m just really—Ah!—” Steve practically loses his footing as Tony’s hand reaches up to gently fondle his sac. His balls tighten up as Tony massages them, and Steve is sure he’d be able to come if he wasn’t trying to meet Clint’s eye right now. “I’m just really sore today,” Steve lifts a hand to rub at his shoulder. “Think I p-pulled something,” he stamps down another moan, Tony being absolutely cruel as he continues to palm at him and stroke at the underside of his length with his tongue.

 

“Okay, feel better, man,” Clint shrugs. “I’ll see you later…” He throws one last odd look Steve’s way before exiting.

 

As soon as the door swings shut again, Steve glares down at Tony. “You are such an assho— ohh—” He bows forward slightly, catching himself against the wall as Tony’s other hand snakes back between his cheeks and a finger prods at his entrance.

 

Tony finally pulls off of Steve with a slight pop of suction, staring up at him with the tip of his cock still resting against his swollen lower lip. “What am I?” He asks innocently, pressing the tip of one water-slicked finger inside of him.

 

They’ve explored this side of Steve’s slowly developing sexuality only slightly in the past few months. Because of more traditional presumptions about sex and relationships, Steve figured from experience that he would be the one “ _giving_ ”, so to speak. But with the sounds that come pouring out of Tony every time they have sex, he has gotten a little curious about what the big deal is. Tony wasted no time in introducing him to a gland in his body that he didn’t even know existed for anything pleasure related, and on more than one occasion has shown him just how pleasurable it can be when he gets his talented fingers and mouth involved.

 

They haven’t worked up to _the big thing_ just yet, but Steve has less reservations about it than before. As reckless and apathetic as Tony can act in certain situations, he’s completely the opposite when it comes to their sex life. He always makes sure Steve is taken care of and comfortable, while also not sacrificing the sensuality of the moment. He has no doubts that Tony’s _pitching_ is just as expert in the bedroom as it is on the field.

 

Tony’s hand slips out from between his legs as he gets back to his feet. His tan skin is flushed from the heat, knees blotchy and red from where they were pressed against the floor. He takes his own erection in his hand, rather than coming closer to Steve he moves away from him, leaning back against the wall as he slowly strokes himself. Dark eyes focus on Steve as he does so, head lolling to one shoulder. “I bet it turns you on, us being in here together. I can see it cross your mind every time we’re in the showers— you wishing there was no one else around so you could pin me against the wall and fuck me— try to get off before anyone walks in—”

 

Steve rises to the bait, surging forward and pulling Tony into a kiss, water pouring between their open mouths as they rut against each other, Steve’s cock settling against Tony’s. He can feel the ridges of his abdomen as his hips slide over his skin, hands reaching down to grope that familiar lean muscle. He knows every line and plane of skin on Tony’s body at this point, his fingertips and mouth tracing over it time after time. He remembers being in total awe the first time they had sex, Steve insisting they turn on his bedside table lamp so he could watch the way Tony’s body moved and flexed as he rode him. Steve never thought of himself to be an inherently sex-driven person, but there were multiple gym sessions with Tony in the following weeks where he had to learn how best to hide an erection in gym shorts and sweats when he saw Tony’s arms or chest flex a certain way.

 

He’s close to getting off like this, feeling the heat of Tony’s body against his with their hard members sliding against one another’s, but Tony did say he wanted to be _punished_ , and this just doesn’t feel sufficient. He spins Tony around and presses him up against the wall, Tony letting out a slight hiss as his skin reacts to the cool tile. He can feel the goose flesh rising up on his arms and chest as he braces himself against the wall, Steve taking his hardness in hand to line up with Tony’s entrance. He wants to tease him at first, expecting a little resistance as he presses just the head of his cock inside of him, but he slides right inside by an inch, and he can tell it’s not just the slight added lubrication of the water.

 

“Did you already—?”

 

“Yes,” Tony moans, his breath fogging against the wall where his cheek his pressed up against it.

 

Steve feels an entire new wave of arousal crash into him at the idea of Tony fingering himself in the showers when their other teammates were still around— so confident in the fact that he was going to get Steve to fuck him once everyone was gone. He presses forward experimentally, sliding in half-way thanks to Tony’s forethought. He swears under his breath, head resting between Tony’s shoulder blades as he tries to hold himself back, rolling his hips slowly to continue to push inside of him, bit by bit. Even with the amount of times they’ve done this, in a countless number of positions, Steve always feels his breath get taken away the moment he presses into Tony’s body, the tightness of his muscle and reactions his body gives always leaving him in awe.

 

“Come on,” Tony practically whines, grunting as one again Steve presses _almost-but-not-quite-all-the-way inside_ , just shy of hitting his prostate. “Enough with the gentle shit, I don’t think our team’s showers are the place for some tender love and care.”

 

Steve leans forward, pulling out by a couple of inches as he presses his lips against Tony’s ear, bracketing his arms around him to further press him up against the wall. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? Acting out all day to get my attention just because you want rough sex?” Steve edges himself a little deeper, feeling Tony clench around him and almost making him lose his bravado. “How about we try ‘ _please_ ’ instead?”

 

Tony groans, trying to wriggle his hips back impatiently, but Steve has a firm hold on him. “Please,” he eventually caves. “ _Please_ fuck me.”

 

Steve finally obliges, placing one hand on the back of Tony’s head as he leans away from him and begins to pump his hips in earnest. The sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin is amplified in the room, the sounds of their misconduct echoing around them and making it all the more thrilling. Tony’s hands scrabble against the slick wall as Steve fucks him from behind, slowly sliding until he’s practically bent at a ninety-degree angle, breathy moans punched out of him with every thrust. Steve’s grip on his hair tightens, finally giving in to what Tony craves. He yanks his head back, earning a delightful sound tearing its way from Tony’s throat as he quickens his pace, letting all his pent-up frustration from the day out.

 

Tony keeps his hands on the wall without Steve asking him to, his obedience clearly selective. Steve made it clear from the start that he likes to be the one to bring Tony off in the end, especially when Tony’s described his past encounters to him. After everything Tony has given him, Steve wants to make sure the pitcher feels as tended to and liberated as he does.

 

He watches Tony’s back muscles and glutes tighten as he arches his back, not needing to verbalize that he’s about to come. Going against both bodies’ desires, Steve pulls out completely, holding onto Tony’s hips to keep him steady. He watches Tony’s head twist around in surprise, mouth agape.

 

“Steve, what—”

 

Easily maneuvering the smaller man’s body to his liking, Steve spins Tony around and pins him up against the stall wall until they’re nose to nose. He captures Tony’s mouth in a biting kiss, tugging his lower lip between his teeth as he hoists one of Tony's legs up around his waist, lifting him off the ground slightly. His other hanging foot barely skims the ground, Steve feeling his toes curl against his leg as he begins to slide back into Tony.

 

The new angle is sinfully fulfilling, Steve burying his face in Tony’s neck as he starts to lose more of his self-control. His hips jackhammer up into Tony who claws at his back and very freely vocalizes his pleasure, a slew of curses falling from his lips in a desperate, aching cry for more.

 

It doesn’t take long for Tony to realize he has more freedom in this position, quickly hiking up his other leg until they’re both wrapped around Steve’s middle, the captain’s hands coming up to hold his ass, helping lift Tony up and almost all the way off his cock before slamming his hips back down. The sensation has light bursting behind Steve’s eyelids, thighs flexing as he both supports Tony’s weight and continues to thrust into him.

 

Tony’s heels dig sharply into his back as his entire body bows outward, Steve leaning back to watch his face as he falls over that edge. His flushed prick is straining upwards against his belly, bobbing between them as Tony continues to bounce on his cock. “With me,” Steve pants out, grabbing onto Tony’s hip with one hand to keep him seated fully, grinding himself up against that sweet little gland inside of him. “Come with me.”

 

Tony manages to hold out for a few seconds longer, rolling his hips and tightening his muscles at the perfect angle as he shudders in Steve’s arms. “Oh, _fuck —_ Steve!” He cries out, throwing his head back “I can’t— I can’t—”

 

Steve pulls out and thrusts upwards _hard_ , entering Tony one last time and feeling his entire body jolt with the force of it. Tony calling Steve’s name echoes in the room around them, the sound helping Steve over that edge as they come together. Tony’s muscles squeeze him impossibly tight as he jerks his hips upward with a renewed vigor, emptying himself inside of the man. Tony comes, completely untouched, spurting his seed between them, streaks of it landing on both their chests.

 

Steve’s arms are shaking in protest as he continues to hold Tony up, the man going completely limp in his arms as he comes down from his orgasm. Steve clutches him closer, intoxicated by Tony’s natural and artificial scents coexisting, the rising steam in the room only further accentuating the smell of sex and evidence of what they’ve done here. He rolls his hips gently inside of Tony as he feels his member twitch through the aftershocks, earning a small whimper as he continues to prod inside of Tony’s sensitive area.

 

He eventually lets Tony’s legs fall to the side, his softening cock slipping free as both of them get their feet back from under them. “ _Holy shit_ ,” Tony breathes, wincing a little as he straightens his back and stretches out his legs experimentally. “I should steal bases more often if this is what it gets me.”

 

Steve leans down and kisses the grin right off Tony’s face. The water has gone cold by now, both of them hastily cleaning themselves off before shutting it off and grabbing their towels. Seeing that there’s only the two of them left, they steal a few more kisses and gropes here and there, though Tony is more of a culprit of that, Steve having to practically hold him at arm’s length just so he can have a few seconds to get changed. As appealing as the thought of bending Tony over the bench is, Steve’s pretty sure he’s done with that kind of risk for the day. Besides, they have plans.

 

“Want to grab a bite?” Steve asks as they head out to the parking lot.

 

“Yeah, I think I worked up quite the appetite after all that,” Tony grins. “What’re you thinkin’, Lucky Blue?”

 

“Actually, I’m kind of craving Italian.”

 

“Didn’t get your fill back there?” Tony asks suggestively, sliding a hand into Steve’s back pocket.

 

“I wasn’t the one getting _filled_ ,” Steve counters easily, sliding Tony’s hand away while the man feigns shock at the rebuttal. _That’s right, you’re not the only one with the double entendres up your sleeve._

 

Tony follows behind Steve as they drive to their destination. Steve can see the skepticism on his face before they even get out of their respective cars when he sees where he’s taken him. “You know, when you said Italian, I thought we were thinking a little more upscale pasta joint, not a pizza place at an abandoned strip mall.”

 

“Hey, don’t judge a book by its cover,” Steve says as they walk to the doors together. “Give it a chance.”

 

He throws a dry look Steve’s way as he walks inside, the restaurant dark and seemingly empty. The little pizza joint is just a smaller portion of a much larger building, the back region split into half an arcade, and half a bowling alley. Tony walks forward and dings the little bell sitting at the abandoned counter.

 

“SURPRISE!!!”

 

Confetti explodes around them as people jump out from behind the counter and booths and tables, all the lights flickering on at once.

 

Seeing Tony jump a good five feet straight up into the air is priceless, staring at all their teammates and friends with wide-eyes as little pieces of shiny, multi-colored paper settle in his hair and on his clothes, balloons on strings floating up to the ceiling once released. He turns his shocked look onto Steve, blinking at him. “You knew it was my birthday?”

 

“Of course,” Steve smiles, stepping forward to brush a bit of confetti off his face. He hopes the action doesn’t look too intimate to their friends, his hand dropping away to keep the gesture nonchalant. “Maybe I got it out of your file in Janet’s office.”

 

“Happy birthday!” Comes the excited chorus from their teammates as they all rush forward to hug Tony in a greeting. Steve steps back, laughing as Tony almost topples to the ground from all the forceful love, even though he really should be used to their team’s tendency to tackle to show their love at this point.

 

Now that the jig is up, the staff comes out of hiding as well and starts getting orders together to make fresh pizza for everyone, customized to however they like. Steve isn’t very picky when it comes to pizza, so while most of the team tries to coordinate their orders, he goes over to try on bowling shoes.

 

Tony plops down in a seat next to him with his own pair a few minutes later, eyes narrowed at him. “Why this place?” He asks curiously.

 

Steve shrugs. “You told me you never got the real experience of being a kid. No fun birthday parties with all your friends, never been in an arcade, or gone bowling. I figured it’s better late than never.” He jerks his chin over to the secondary food area by the bowling lanes, nachos, popcorn, and other candy options galore. “And they have beer here.”

 

Tony smiles softly at him. “And you planned all this?”

 

“I had Bruce and Rhodes give me some input too,” Steve says bashfully. “When I called this place to rent out the whole thing, I think the owners were surprised to hear you were turning twenty-three, not twelve.”

 

“Jerk,” Tony says fondly, nudging him with his elbow. He finishes lacing up his shoes and immediately climbs up on a table to call out the best bowlers among them to challenge them. Tony’s never bowled a day in his life, but something tells Steve that he’s going to be a natural at it.

 

Rhodey pops over the back of the chairs, watching in amusement as Tony makes a show of picking out the brackets for everyone to start competing in. He sets down a beer on the table next to Steve. “Told you not to worry about him liking it or not.”

 

Steve smiles bashfully, fiddling with his already laced shoes. “I just didn’t want him to think it was too childish.” He knows the kinds of parties Tony is used to throwing and attending: big fancy galas and dinner parties. He had his doubts that Tony would like this at all, but he’s already grinning like a madman as he looks over all the bowling balls, weighing them in his hands and practicing his wind up.

 

“Nah, you did good, man,” he pats Steve on the back, a thoughtful look then crossing his face. “So what did you do to keep him distracted long enough for us to get everything set up?”

 

Steve chokes on his beer at the innocent enough question with a far-from-innocent answer. He does his best to recover, coughing into his hand as Rhodey’s curious look becomes even moreso. “Uh… You know… Just got him talking about himself.” He hopes his blush doesn’t give him away.

 

“Figures,” Rhodey laughs, brushing off Steve’s weird behavior. “Now if you don’t mind me, I’m gonna go smoke our birthday boy on the lanes.”

 

Steve is god awful at bowling, so he spends most of his time in the arcade. Thor has apparently never been to an arcade either, so Steve has a good time showing him the ropes. There’s a claw machine that Bruce is somehow brilliant at, having the patience and skill to somehow outsmart the rigged machine and pass around stuffed animals to everyone. Between bowling matches there’s a very intense air hockey game between Lang and Quill that takes place that everyone starts placing bets and getting in on, Scott eventually reigning victorious and sending Peter off to bury his woes in beer.

 

Pepper is the last to arrive at the party, showing up about an hour or two after everyone has gotten into the swing of things. Tony is overjoyed to see her and Steve is glad she accepted the invitation and was willing to fly across the country just for tonight to see Tony. He knows how much she means to him, and having a little piece of home with him for his birthday is important considering how tough the last year has been on him.

 

The button mashing and flashing electronic lights eventually lose their luster for most of the group, everyone ending up on the bowling alley end of the building with pizza and beer consumed to varying levels. They’re down to the “semi-finals” of the little tournament put together, the top four consisting of Tony, Rhodey, Natasha, and Scott. Anyone left playing matches a few lanes down just for fun have given up on that to come see the final showdowns, everyone taking sides and cheering on their favorites to win and heckling those they don’t like. Quill beans Tony in the back of the head with a well-aimed French fry after he gets yet another strike against Scott, the two immediately locked in a high-speed chase around the building before they’re scolded by staff.

 

Steve watches the antics from afar, happily eating his nachos with the terrible, rubbery, room temperature cheese. He’s sitting alone at a small table at the edge of where everyone’s gathered, close enough to still see all the action while staying far enough away from Tony. They have an unspoken rule about keeping things casual in public, not needing to raise suspicion to what they’re relationship is really like. All the fun and teasing aside, it could be incredibly detrimental to both their careers and their personal lives if the true nature of their relationship was to get out. As much as it kills Steve to keep his distance when all he wants to do is be close to Tony on his birthday, he knows they just _can’t_.

 

It’s down to Tony vs Rhodey when Pepper slides into the empty seat next to Steve, pleasant smile on her face. He’s never really interacted with the woman personally before, but he knows what a huge role she plays in Tony’s life.

 

“Who’s got your vote?” Steve asks, gesturing with beer in hand to the final two.

 

“Oh, my money’s on Rhodey, easy,” Pepper scoffs. “He’s been bowling for years.”

 

“Yeah, but Tony’s done really well tonight. Almost all strikes and spares,” Steve points out.

 

Pepper hums. “Yeah, Tony’s got physics on his side, but he lacks the technique. Just because he knows the angle and speed to throw the ball at, and can predict the spin, the way those pins fall are a bit of a wild card for him.” She glances sideways at him with a small smile. “Although I guess I don’t have to ask who you’re backing. Gotta support your man, right?”

 

Steve’s eyes flicker away from her, picking at his chips in his basket. He glances back up at her to see her smiling still, a look of understanding in her eyes. “It’s okay, Steve. Tony told me about you two,” she keeps her voice lowered, even though there’s no one nearby or paying them any mind to eavesdrop.

 

“Oh,” Steve says, eyes fixed on his beer. He feels tense but relaxed all at once knowing that somebody else knows about them, although he should’ve just assumed Tony would tell Pepper. He tells her everything.

 

“Hey,” she places her hand over his to bring him back down to earth. “I didn’t mean to be so blunt about it. I just wanted to let you know you have someone in your corner.”

 

Steve finally brings himself to look at her, all kind-eyed with ginger colored freckles dotting her face. He can’t pinpoint her age, but she’s probably a few years younger than Steve, but not quite as young as Tony. “What did he tell you?” Steve asks hesitantly. As much as their relationship has developed since their first encounter back on Christmas, they haven’t really made things _official_ . Every time Steve tries to breach the subject, Tony finds a way to brush it off. _We don’t need labels_ , he insists. Honestly, Steve isn’t even sure if Tony is sleeping with anyone else. If they didn’t spend almost every day and night together, and if Steve didn’t know Tony’s schedule allows for very little fun on the side, he might have the right to assume he is. They haven’t exactly agreed on any sort of terms for this… whatever they are.

 

“Just that you two have been involved for a few months now,” she shrugs. “Which means a lot considering Tony’s never had a real relationship or connection with anyone, let alone for longer than a week.”

 

“It’s nothing serious,” Steve tries to brush off, thinking that even to his own ears the words sound like lies. Of course he wants _more_ with Tony, but he’s not going to push. Why fix what isn’t broken, right? Steve’s in a little over his head too with everything, so maybe Tony being gun shy about calling their relationship more than just an _extra friendly partnership_ is a blessing in disguise.

 

Pepper snorts, clearly not believing him either. “Is that what he told you? Because, trust me, that boy is absolutely _crazy_ about you,” Pepper shakes her head with a smile. “Honestly, I thought he was _joking_ at first when he told me. Then I told him what an idiot he was.”

 

Steve is taken aback by that, almost offended. “Why?”

 

“Nothing against you, specifically, Steve,” she amends, patting his arm. “It’s just… Dating— or fucking, whatever you two want to call it— someone so high profile just screams PR danger. My job has always been to keep Tony in line. Some people might think I’m not so good at that considering all the scandals he gets wrapped up in, but if only they knew the stuff they _don’t_ get to see,” she sighs, running a hand through her strawberry blonde locks. “Tony knows that if his secret gets out, his entire career is over, and there’s no way he’ll be able to fall back on Stark Industries, even with his father not around anymore to disown him. Messing around with a fellow teammate? It’s just asking to get found out,” she sighs.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologizes, even if he’s not sure why.

 

She waves him off. “Like I said, it’s not your fault. The only other thing that made me hesitant was the fact that you’re _thirteen_ years older than him, but considering what Tony usually goes for, that’s actually quite young.”

 

Steve tries not to blush at that. He knows the age difference isn’t exactly something to ignore, and he doesn’t just mean the old man jokes Tony is constantly making about him. As if their relationship isn’t controversial enough, the fact that they come from completely different _decades_ is just icing on the cake. It doesn’t bother the two of them, but Steve does wonder what their closest friends will think if they ever find out. Would people on the outside think Steve is taking advantage of Tony? That he’s some sort of predator who can’t get anyone his own age to love him so he has to manipulate someone just starting to get their life together? Of course, he knows that’s not the case and that he and Tony are a very special circumstance, but those are definitely thoughts that have crossed his mind.

 

“Relax, Steve, I don’t judge. Age is just a number and you two are adults, so it’s none of my business,” Pepper holds her hands up. “All that aside… He tells me how _happy_ you make him. And that’s what matters to me more than anything else.”

 

“Me too,” Steve answers immediately without really thinking about it. They share a small smile.

 

“Okay, now that I’ve got the diplomatic stuff out of the way,” she grasps Steve’s hands in hers. “Tell me _all_ about how you two got together. I’ve been dying to know and Tony’s _really_ been holding out on me.”

 

* * *

 

 

The face-off between Tony and Rhodey ends with Rhodey as the champion, just as Pepper predicted. The birthday boy takes the loss as graciously as he can, sufficiently tipsy enough to shake hands with Rhodey and walk away with his defeat. Steve sobers up enough during the last couple hours of the winding down party to offer rides to anyone who can fit in his car. Tony, of course, takes him up on the offer, and they scoop up Natasha, Pietro, and Thor as well. They say their goodbyes to Pepper who’s headed back to her hotel, promising to grab breakfast with Tony before her flight in the morning if he’s not too hungover.

 

Thankfully, no one finds it odd that Steve will be dropping Tony off last thanks to the fact that their apartments are the closest together. Driving for a bit with the windows down and forcing plenty of water down Tony’s gullet has helped him back off the precipice of total belligerence to a much more manageable half-past tipsy.

 

Steve manages to get him into his apartment without too much trouble, Tony swaying and stumbling his way over to Steve’s couch to collapse onto it face first.

 

“Coffee?” He offers in amusement, walking into the kitchen to get a pot going. He hears what sounds like a muffled “yes please” come from the living room and gets out Tony’s usual mug alongside his own.

 

When he returns to the living room, steaming mugs in hand, Tony is sitting up and luckily not covered in his own vomit. Steve sits down next to him and can barely set the cups on his table before Tony is straddling his lap and pressing him back into the couch. They trade languid kisses, Steve leaning back and letting Tony lick into his mouth, his large hands sliding up under Tony’s shirt to feel the warmth of his bare skin. Tony is the first to break away from the kiss, cupping Steve’s face between his hands. He’s still got a bit of icing stuck in his hair from when Natasha had mashed a piece of his own cake into his face, Steve reaching up to pluck it out.

 

“Thank you for tonight,” Tony says, barely above a whisper. “I… I’ve never… I’ve never had someone do something like that for me.”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Really? I know it wasn’t anything extravagant like you’re used to…”

 

Tony shakes his head. “No, it was better. So much better. I loved it.” He shifts himself out of Steve’s lap to curl next to him, grasping his coffee mug between two hands. “But I am curious… What did you and Pepper talk about?”

 

Steve shouldn’t be surprised Tony caught that, even during the heated match-up. He probably steals as many glances at Steve as Steve does him. “You, of course.”

 

Tony scoffs. “Well, _duh_. What about me? She spill all my dirty secrets?” he asks teasingly.

 

Steve thinks back to their conversation, all the burning questions he’s been wanting to ask Tony for the past few months finding their way to the front of his mind. Pepper had been able to confirm all his suspicions that Tony is more serious about this than he lets on, and there’s no one else in his field of interest as long as Steve is here in front of him.

 

“Tony, what are we doing here?” Steve sighs.

 

He gets a blank stare in return. “...Drinking coffee? Talking? Or do you mean on, like, an existential level? Because scientifically, I can answer that question, but if you mean philosophically—”

 

“No, that’s not what I mean,” he cuts off Tony’s drunken rambling. “I mean… This. Us. Can we talk about it?”

 

Tony’s expression immediately becomes more serious. He tucks his legs underneath him, running a hand through his messy hair. “What is there to talk about?”

 

“Don’t play dumb, Tony, you’re no good at it,” Steve chides with a wry smile. “I just mean… We’ve been doing _this_ for a while now. And I know we haven’t really talked about it because you get all dodgy when I try to bring it up, but I think both of us know that this is more than just us being close friends who occasionally fool around.”

 

Tony’s gaze cuts away. “I told you what this was going to be from the start, Steve.”

 

“Yeah, but that was then. Half a year ago. And we’ve both felt something for each other for longer than that, so what are you so afraid of?”

 

“I’m not afraid,” Tony mutters petulantly.

 

“Then what would you call it?”

 

“I don’t want to call it anything!”

 

“Tony,” Steve sighs in frustration, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ve been patient. I understand that maybe this is new territory for you, but it’s new to me too. I just think we should be able to talk about this—”

 

“Why?” Tony interrupts, still glaring away from him. “What we have is a good thing, I don’t see why we need to ruin it.”

 

“How is solidifying how we feel about each other ruining things?” Steve asks, genuinely curious why Tony’s thoughts go directly to doomsday possibilities. “I’m not saying that we need to come out to the world and fearlessly proclaim we’re in a relationship, but I want us to at least be honest with _each other_.”

 

“What do you want me to say, Steve? That I love you?” He asks in exasperation, throwing his hands up. “Because I do, okay? _I love you —_ I’m _in_ love with you. And it scares the absolute, ever-loving shit out of me because I’ve never been in love with anyone except myself. And I didn’t expect to fall for you — I thought it was just some stupid leftover crush from when I was a teenager. Once I realized you were attracted to me too, I thought I could just get it out of my system with a few good fucks, show you the ropes, and then we’d go our separate ways because we’re clearly too different to try and function past that. But, _god_ , you didn’t walk away from this. Weeks kept going by and you never hit me with a ‘ _Well this has been fun, but I realized that for my future it’s best to just pretend to be straight and look back on this homosexual lapse of judgement fondly, see ya at practice_!’ But you never did. I never got anxious about you staying the night; I started _liking_ your face being the first thing I woke up to in the morning. You invited me over for dinner and asked me how my day was despite the fact that we were together for most of it. You showed interest in my hobbies outside of baseball, and I started wanting to know about yours too. This stopped being an outlet for sexual frustration and turned into something I wasn’t at all prepared for! Hell, I can hardly even concentrate during games now because your stupid _face_ and _smell_ and _touch_ are all I can think about —” He sucks in a deep breath, apparently forgetting that the intake of air is essential when trying to confess your love to someone for the first time. “I didn’t think you needed to hear all of that to know how I feel about you— I thought I was doing plenty to just _show_ it.”

 

Steve stares at Tony, effectively rendered speechless. Whereas before Tony was avoiding his gaze, doing everything he could to avoid breaching the topic, now that he’s laid it all out on the line, his eyes are locked onto Steve. It’s the same determined stare he has when winding up for a pitch, his eyes locked onto the target knowing his arm will follow through flawlessly. Now he’s just waiting for Steve to take his swing.

 

“I love you too,” is all he can muster for a response, leaning in to kiss Tony once more. He wants it to be assuring, to confirm that Tony does show it, and apologize for ever doubting his fears were anything but genuine. “I’m sorry for being insecure, and that it was putting pressure on you. I only wanted to ask for more because… I don’t want to lose you,” he holds Tony’s face in his hands, watching the tension leave his face. “I didn’t want you to get bored and move on to someone who can give you more than I can.”

 

Tony huffs, turning his face into Steve’s hand to kiss his palm. “There’s no one even close, Steve.”

 

He smiles and strokes a thumb over Tony’s cheek, watching his eyelashes flutter. “So… You had a crush on me before we knew each other?”

 

Tony immediately groans and shoves Steve away from him, practically flinging himself over the back of the couch to escape. “ _That’s_ what you took away from all that?”

 

Steve grabs him by the back of his jeans and pulls him back down before he hurts himself or breaks something. “What, I’m curious!” He laughs. “You talked about hating my guts growing up, so I’m sensing a disconnect somewhere.”

 

Tony glares at him angrily, but his embarrassment betrays him by flushing his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink. “I _did_ hate your guts, but I was also a hormonal, closeted teenager who grew up surrounded with magazines full of ripped, handsome, male baseball players. Can you blame me for sneaking some of your spreads out of my dad’s office to jerk off to?”

 

“Okay, I didn’t need to know _that_ part.” Now it’s his turn to be embarrassed.

 

Tony gets some of his bearings back when Steve shows discomfort, grinning wolfishly at him. “It wasn’t _just_ you, there were plenty others…”

 

“Didn’t need to know that either.”

 

Tony leans forward, lacing his fingers together behind Steve’s neck. “Oh come on, you were never _curious_ about the same-sex growing up?”

 

“Not until you,” he answers honestly. He had plenty of guys back in the day tease him about being a homo or a fag just because he didn’t express his interest in women as outwardly as they did. It never really bothered him back then, but he also didn’t consider any kind of validity to their remarks.

 

“Aw, so I was your first,” Tony gushes, climbing back into his lap. “No wonder you wanna lock me down so bad. You’re such a _romantic_ , Steve.”

 

“Oh shut up,” Steve huffs, covering Tony’s face with his hand and shoving him away. “I’m starting to regret having this conversation.”

 

“Hey!” He complains. “You can’t be mean to me, it’s my birthday.”

 

Steve checks his watch. “Actually, it hasn’t been your birthday for fourteen minutes, so that rule no longer applies.”

 

Steve lets Tony argue the semantics and relativity of time as a concept all the way to the bedroom where he passes out as soon as his head hits the pillow. Steve crawls into bed behind him, wrapping an arm protectively around his middle despite the fact that he knows he won’t be disappearing in the night. No longer carrying a heart laden with worries of feelings not being reciprocated, it’s one of the most sound sleeps of his life.

 

 

 

November, 1993 

 

Randomly being called by the Team Manager for a meeting during the off-season can mean a million things. Janet doesn’t specify why she wants to speak with Tony, just leaves him a message during his and Steve’s morning run that she needs to speak with him in her office whenever he has the chance to swing by. Not giving him a definitive time frame he’s supposed to show up at may be the most suspicious part of all of this. Normally she’ll at least lie to him so that when he shows up late he might unknowingly be turning up right on time.

 

It works out. Steve plans on having a quiet day to himself to draw, maybe even go for a walk around the city to try and seek out a naturally occurring photo-op. Tony kisses him goodbye at the door, promising to stop by after with takeout from their new favorite Greek place up the block. He calls Janet ahead of time just to be nice, the woman brief on the phone just to keep the mystery alive.

 

He wonders if she knows about him and Steve. They’ve been able to fly under the radar thus far. They’re _careful_ ; They don’t show affection anywhere that isn’t totally private, they do their best not to advertise the few times they could be spotted out in public together, and aside from the few times they’ve maybe shared a questionable look or touch here and there inside the stadium, no one should be the wiser.

 

There’s no way she knows. She _can’t_ know. But then… why is she calling him in today?

 

The stadium is mostly empty when he shows up. It looks like there’s a couple of school buses parked out front, maybe some kind of field trip for one of the local elementary or middle schools, not very uncommon during the off-season. Half of him wants to roam around to try and find them for a surprise, but he doesn’t want to keep Janet waiting and his own curiosity is taking precedence right now. Maybe there’ll be time for that after.

 

He takes the elevator up to where Janet and Nat’s offices are, peeking into Natasha’s first just to see if she’s around and could maybe give him some insight on whatever it is the manager wants with him today. Her door to the office is open, but the room is devoid of any fiery redheads. Everything is organized including the stacks of files laying out on her desk. He can see some headshots paperclipped to the outside of the folders— Possible future recruits then?

 

When he turns to go he notices a new addition to the wall by the door: a framed, group photo of all of them after the Championship win last year. Natasha stands proudly in the center of the photo, with the rest of the team piled in around her. He smiles at the memory, running his hand over the glass before exiting.

 

Janet’s office is at the end of the hallway. He can see some figures shifting around inside through the frosted pane of glass on the window along with the sound of multiple muffled voices as he approaches. Strange. He’s under this impression this is supposed to be a one-on-one. He hesitates outside of the door for a moment to try and see if he can pick out the voices. There are definitely a couple of male tones in there, and another female who’s not Janet, but doesn’t quite sound like Natasha either. He decides to just find out rather than ponder, and opens the door without preamble.

 

The office is larger than Natasha’s, mainly because more of the formal meetings with investors or other managers usually take place in here as Janet is the front end of the entire operation. She’s sitting behind her desk as a familiar anchor, but there are three more strangers seated in front of her. Their conversation stops abruptly when Tony walks in, all but Janet immediately getting to their feet to greet him. The trio is dressed rather sharply, more formal than Janet’s simple blouse and slacks— the two men are in suits, the woman in her own matching blazer and pencil skirt.

 

“Uh, hi?” Tony says, still lingering in the doorway. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just be outside, Jan. Take your time finishing up—”

 

“No,” Janet interrupts him with an apologetic smile. “You’re having the meeting with all of us today. Please, shut the door.”

 

With suspicion only rising, Tony does as is asked of him, a foreboding sense that closing this door is sealing his fate in a way. He crosses the room, eyes flickering between the three figures. He vaguely recognizes the man in the nicer suit, the one who had been sitting in his own seat while his colleagues shared the couch. He steps forward first, holding a hand out. “Alexander Pierce. It’s nice to finally meet you, Anthony.”

 

Pierce, Pierce, Alexander Pierce— Right. A Major League Man. He vaguely can recognize the name and face as one of his father’s old acquaintances. He owns one of the teams in the MLB, but he can’t think of which one right now. “Tony is fine,” he says, shaking the man’s hand.

 

“Tony, then. These are my colleagues, Phil Coulson and Maria Hill,” he introduces, gesturing to the two completely new faces in the room.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stark,” the man, Coulson, says, giving him a vigorous handshake while his counterpart just gives a gentle shake and polite nod in greeting.

 

“Right…” Tony hedges, glancing in confusion between them before he looks to Janet. “So what’s all this about then?”

 

Something flickers in her gaze, a discomfort that doesn’t ease any of his reservations in that moment as his mind starts to draw conclusions he hopes aren’t true. “Why don’t you have a seat, Tony.” She requests softly.

 

Unwillingly, Tony sits down in the free chair next to Pierce, tapping on the arm of it impatiently. No one speaks for a moment, the newcomers seemingly waiting for Janet to take the reigns. So no one really wants to own up to what they’re here for. The pit in Tony’s stomach sinks deeper.

 

“Tony,” Janet starts carefully, leaning forward slightly with her palms upturned on the table. She’s treating him like a wild animal she’s being careful not to spook. “Alexander is the owner of the Knights based in D.C. and Maria and Phil are the managers of the team.”

 

Tony closes his eyes. Of course. He sighs loudly and gets to his feet, looking between Pierce and the managers. “Well, I apologize you guys came all this way as this probably could’ve been resolved with a phone call. I’m not for sale.” He heads for the door. “It was nice to meet you all.”

 

“Tony—” Janet calls out to him. “Stop.”

 

He actually listens to her, turning slowly to face her again. “Why?”

 

“Just come and sit down so we can discuss this.”

 

“What is there to discuss?” He asks, taking a few strides back towards her desk. “You asked three weeks ago if I was staying on another season and I said yes. I had Pepper send the paperwork over, already signed and sealed. There is no further _discussion_ needed.”

 

“You may have already signed off on it, but I haven’t.”

 

That’s a surprise, but it doesn't make Tony take a seat. He’s never had to have this kind of conversation. Every year he tells Pepper he is staying with the Avengers and she performs her magic and nothing changes. “What do you mean?”

 

Janet sighs and rubs her temple, clearly trying not to lose her temper in front of the visitors. If they were alone, she would’ve snapped at Tony by now. “Your transfer to our team was under very _unique_ circumstances, Tony. Realistically, it shouldn’t have happened in the first place, but Fury, Romanoff, and I decided to allow it. Since you came to the Avengers, you have absolutely refused to sign a multi-season contract and as dubious as your request was, we accepted those terms.”

 

“Yeah, because I wasn’t trying to sell my soul out to a team. I did that to prove a point,” he argues.

 

She levels her sageful eye on him. “And don’t you think you proved that point? We won the Championship last year, Tony. We beat your old team. So mission accomplished, right?”

 

“ _Mission accomplished_ ,” Tony scoffed. “You’re starting to sound like Nick. Speaking of which, shouldn’t he be here to discuss losing one of his team’s MVPs?” He doesn’t care if he comes across as a pompous douche to these Major League asshats. Maybe he’ll make them think twice about wanting to buy him. “And don’t you give a shit about what I want?”

 

“It’s not all about _you_ , Tony!” She finally bursts, getting to her feet. “I know you treat your entire career as some big joke, but this affects people’s livelihoods. I’ve held my tongue and let you make a mockery of this sport because it doesn’t mean a thing to you, but that’s ending now. You might have other options to fall back on, the family name, the company, your Masters’ and Doctorates and whatever other accolades you got from one of the most prestigious universities in the country, but that isn’t the case for 90% of the people here. Baseball is their _lives_ , Tony. Some of them fight tooth and nail for years to get their opportunities, and you’re so damn _casual_ with picking it up and throwing it away like it’s _nothing_!”

 

Janet shakes her head and sits back in her seat to try and calm herself before continuing. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, despite never _bothering_ to ask, there have been offers from at least half of the Major League teams to buy you out from us since you started playing for our team. Of course no one dared to make the offer before when you were playing for your dad, and back then you were such a little shit that no one wanted to deal with you — Stop smiling, Tony. That’s not a compliment— And even though _you_ might not care about this, the Avengers have needed those kinds of funds for a while. It helps us short-term by being able to put better offers down for newcomers from the lower leagues, and long-term by improving our facilities and equipment.”

 

For once, Tony goes quiet and lets her talk. Of course he’s aware of all the behind-the-scenes dealings that go on; He’s been around it since he was a kid listening in on his dad’s meetings and phone calls. As much as the leagues try and market baseball as this beloved sport where people from all over the country can come together and celebrate wholesome, family entertainment, at the end of the day, it all comes down to money and corruption. All the heart in the world won’t keep a team afloat if they don’t have the revenue to back it up.

 

“We turned down every Major League team that put an offer because we knew at the time it wasn’t worth it. Your image was improving, your skill set on our team helped immeasurably, and all around the team was bringing in a lot of good publicity and sponsors. Winning the Championship only further solidified us as a team that can be taken seriously after a long struggle to even hold middle ground…”

 

 _There’s a ‘_ but’ _coming,_ Tony thinks to himself.

 

“However—”

 

 _Oh, ‘_ however' _. Very classy, Van Dyne, always keep me on my toes._

 

“— For the past two seasons we’ve had a lot of good players retire. We’ve been able to find a solid lineup of recruits that we think can keep the team alive, but we need the salaries to lock them into joining the Avengers over any other Triple-A team. And frankly, Tony, we think you’re getting bored.”

 

He isn’t expecting to hear that. “Bored?” He echoes in confusion. “I’m not bored. I lo— like it here. A lot. I like this team.”

 

“I didn’t say you don’t like it here,” Janet holds up her hands. “But I’ve talked it over with Fury and we’ve always been on the same page in regards to you playing for us since day one. You can do a lot better. You should be playing in the Majors and while that wasn’t an option on your mind before… We think it should be now.”

 

 _We_. Tony’s head is swimming with all sorts of dismissals and arguments, but who was we exactly? “Nat agrees with you on that? Because I find that hard to believe,” he crosses his arms. Natasha has become one of his closest friends here, and he can’t fathom that she could be in on this without even talking to him about it first.

 

“Of course _none_ of us want you to go —”

 

“What did Nat say?”

 

Janet sighs through her nose. “She probably likes it as much as you do.”

 

“I knew there was a reason I trust her judgement,” Tony replies dryly.

 

“But she thinks you should do it,” Janet elaborates. “You know any coach would be insane to want to give up a pitcher like you, Tony, but she also knows what’s best for her players and she agrees with Fury and I that this is the best decision for you and for the team.”

 

Tony just scoffs, truly speechless for once. The room is uncomfortably silent for a few moments before Coulson clears his throat, turning to face Tony. “We’ve had our eyes on your for a while, Mr. Stark. Specifically Coach Danvers—”

 

“Yeah, well you can tell him to fuck off.”

 

“I’ll tell _her_ no such thing,” he responds curtly, expression indifferent. “She’s been an advocate for you to join the Knights for the past few years now and is an old friend of Mr. Fury’s —”

 

“Of course she is,” Tony shakes his head. “I’m starting to think that bastard is _old friends_ with just about everybody.”

 

“Well, I won’t deny that,” Pierce says with a tight laugh. “Ms. Hill and Mr. Coulson here both used to work with him as well.” Pierce stands up and pulls a slip of paper out of his inner coat pocket, holding it out to Tony. “Mr. Stark, I suggest you at least consider our offer.”

 

Tony’s arms remain crossed. “I don’t like to be handed things, and I also don’t give a shit about whatever amount is written on that check. I’m not in this for money.”

 

Pierce seems unphased by Tony’s crass attitude. He neatly folds the crisp piece of paper in half and sets it down on Janet’s desk. “You might not be, but I believe your team is. Obviously there is nothing left for us to say to try and convince you so I won’t waste my breath.” He makes a signal with his hand and Coulson and Hill stand as well. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Stark.”

 

Begrudgingly, Tony shakes Pierce’s hand, but not without one last snide remark. “The pleasure was all yours, I assure you.”

 

Pierce smiles tightly and squeezes Tony’s hand with a bit more force than necessary, and Hill and Coulson each shake his hand as well before filing out after their boss like the yes-men they are.

 

The room is quiet, Tony wondering if he can get away with just making a dash for the exit while Janet is giving him the silent treatment. He eventually turns to look back at her, the woman looking exhausted as she stares out the window, Pierce’s little slip of paper clenched in one of her hands.

 

“So what happens when I say no?” Tony finally asks, breaking the tension.

 

“ _If_ you say no, then I really have no choice,” she shrugs. “You’re too smart for me to be anything but transparent with you. You know you have all the pull here. I suppose I could just tell you if you don’t take Pierce’s offer then I drop your contract as well and leave you without a team to play on for the next season.”

 

Tony smirks, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Are you saying you would drop me just to teach me a lesson?”

 

“As satisfying as it would be, and contrary to what you probably think of me right now, my goal isn’t to hurt you or make you miserable. The Avengers would take a huge hit losing you, which we absolutely cannot afford if we don’t at least have the money from The Knights to pull in some more talent.” She rubs her hand down her face with a sigh. “I know I can’t make you do anything, but maybe you should talk it over with Steve before you make your decision.”

 

A lump suddenly finds itself in the middle of Tony’s throat and he struggles to swallow it down. Steve knowing or not knowing about this hadn’t even crossed his mind. “I don’t see what Steve has to do with any of this,” he says as neutrally as possible.

 

Janet sighs definitively. “I think he might have everything to do with this.”

 

Tony doesn’t stick around to find out what she means by that.

 

* * *

 

 

He does his best to forget about the meeting. He’s going to turn them down anyway, but he at least owes it to his own ego to make Janet sweat it out for another few days before he let’s the axe fall, call her on her bluff that she would even consider not processing his next single-season contract.

 

As much as he tries to ignore it, he knows Steve can smell something in the air. They’ve been practically living together during the last couple of months since their hectic game schedule came to an end, their belongings coalescing at each other’s apartments, though they tend to spend more time at Steve’s. It’s a little less visible to outside attentions, the neighbors not quite as privy to gossip. Tony hasn’t slept in his own bed alone in weeks, but after Janet’s meeting he keeps finding excuses to hole himself in the workshop and dodge Steve’s calls just so he can keep his thoughts away from his career.

 

He drains another glass of bourbon as Steve sets the table, bringing over the chicken parmesan he’s made them for dinner. While Tony is more than happy with takeout and restaurant food, Steve makes it a point to cook for him as often as he can. Sarah was apparently a big proprietor of the kitchen, but Tony suspects that also just has to do with their class differences. Maria never stepped near a stove in her life, but who needed to when you could just hire a staff of chefs to do all the meal prep?

 

Either way, he’s grateful for Steve’s insistence on a real, home-cooked meal every now and again. As he watches the man bring over their dinner, setting down the sides dishes in the center of his rickety old dining room table, Tony feels that prickle of sadness dig a little deeper at the thought of ever leaving this behind.

 

“So...” Steve opens in such a painfully conversational tone that he’s already dreading the conversation that he knows is about to follow. “You never told me how your meeting with Janet the other day went.”

 

Tony pushes around the pasta on his plate, not looking up. “It was fine,” he evades.

 

Steve doesn’t let that answer slide for long. “What did you guys talk about?” He probes after a few moments of silence.

 

Tony hesitates. While he’s tried to shove the meeting into the recesses of his mind for the past few days, he hasn’t really thought about how he wants to breach the topic with Steve. Part of him thinks maybe he can just ignore it and then it’ll all go away. His contract will go through, he’ll still be playing on the Avengers come Spring, and no one even has to know this was even open for discussion.

 

“Um, just benign contract stuff. Same as every season, wondering if I’m going to sign on for multiple seasons or not,” he dismisses.

 

“Are you?”

 

Tony shrugs. “You know me. I don’t want to stay tied down. That way when I start hating baseball again I can just quit and not have to worry about anything else.”

 

Steve just hums in reply, twirling spaghetti noodles around in the sauce before shoving a forkful into his mouth. They eat in silence for the next few minutes. Tony can feel the apprehensiveness, thick and cloying in the air between them.

 

“So, I saw something pretty funny earlier today. Mrs. Sanchez from down the hall was walking her dog—”

 

“I’m getting sold to the Majors,” Tony blurts out in a rush. _Shit_.

 

He finally looks up from his plate to see Steve staring back at him with a blank expression. “Which team?” He asks calmly.

 

There’s either no surprise there, or Steve has somehow learned very quickly how to effectively mask his emotions since last week. “The Washington D.C. Knights.”

 

“Ah, Pierce’s team,” Steve takes a sip of water. “So what did you say?”

 

He’s being so fucking blasé that Tony wants to scream. Shouldn’t he care more about this? Or at least show a modicum of surprise at this news? “I told them no, of course.”

 

“Why?”

 

Tony’s fork scrapes against his plate, his gaze slowly rising back up to stare at his boyfriend. “What do you mean _why_ ?” He asks incredulously. “Because it would mean leaving the Avengers. Leaving _you_.”

 

Steve wipes at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “It would also mean you getting the chance to play for a Major League team alongside people at your caliber.”

 

“I don’t want that,” Tony grounds out in frustration, shaky hand going to refill his glass. “And if I turn down the offer then either Janet’s going to shred my contract proposal or just let me drown in guilt for the rest of the season because they don’t get to cash a fat check from Pierce.”

 

Steve doesn’t have a response for that as Tony knocks back another glass. His eyes are watering and his face grows hot thanks to the burn of the alcohol and the mounting frustration.

 

“Did you already turn them down?”

 

Irritation flickers across Tony’s face. He figures this conversation is over with, but evidently, Steve has other plans. “Basically. I haven’t actually gotten any kind of formal contract to sign but I told Janet and Pierce I want nothing to do with it.”

 

“Ah,” Steve nods and continues to eat. He’s looking imploringly at Tony in such an honest matter that he wants to shrink under the weight of his gaze. He can’t stand to look at Steve right now, eyes falling back to his plate. “I think you should sign.”

 

Now he’s starting to regret the interruption, wishing he kept his mouth shut so he could be hearing Steve’s story about his elderly neighbor’s deaf beagle instead of being trapped in this horrible conversation. Tony closes his eyes, trying to absorb the words that just came out of Steve’s mouth. “No, Steve.”

 

“Hear me out—”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“Why won’t you just—”

 

“I said no!” Tony glares at him. “What, do you not want me on your team anymore?”

 

“You and I both know that’s a stupid question, Tony,” Steve sighs. “But I really do think you should think about it. I mean, you’ve been doing amazing with the Avengers, but I’d have to agree with everyone saying it might be your time to move on. Besides, so many ball players work for the entire _lives_ for a chance like this so I think it’s a waste if you don’t even —”

 

“Oh not this again,” Tony slams his back into his chair angrily, glaring up the ceiling while his hands go up to grip his hair at the roots. “Save the fucking guilt trip, honey, Janet already took me down that road.”

 

“I’m not trying to guilt trip you, I’m just trying to make you think about this rationally,” Steve sits forward in his seat, _finally_ showing something other than total despondence. “You’ve got an incredible talent, can you fault me and the people who love you for wanting to see how much more you can be if you let yourself? The Tony I know wouldn’t just throw it all away for nothing, so why are you?”

 

“Because I don’t even _care_ about baseball!” Tony erupts, slamming his knees into the underside of the table as he shoots up to his feet. “I never have! I couldn’t find a shit to give about this _lousy goddamn sport_ until I met _you_ , so forgive me if I don’t want to leave the only reason I bothered to stick around so long!”

 

_Oh. So that’s what Janet meant by that._

 

Steve looks briefly surprised by the confession, but he schools his expression back into parental diplomacy. Tony hates it. He feels like he’s getting a lecture from boarding school headmaster #3 about his behavior and what needs to change. “I know that this started as just some ploy to get back at your father and prove yourself to the rest of the world, but how you started shouldn’t matter anymore. Look at where you’ve ended up! You first got into engineering and design because of him, right? But you made it entirely your own and something you _love_ doing and are incredible at, so how is this any different?”

 

Tony laughs loudly, clutching at his head in disbelief. “Oh my god, you’re really trying to relate it all back to my issues with my dad? You’re supposed to be my _boyfriend_ , not my fucking _therapist_. So, what, I’m not able to do anything on my own so I should just keep letting everyone else breed and mold me to be their little fucking puppet? To fulfill some dream that was never even mine just so others can sleep at night thinking they _saved_ me from myself?!”

 

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it—”

 

“Well it sure sounds like it! And it sounds like you’re just trying to get me to take the deal so you have an easy ticket out of this relationship!”

 

Hurt flashes across Steve’s face before his expression turns guarded. He fixes a hard stare on Tony, jaw clenched tightly. “Tony. Stop.”

 

 _He’s not denying it,_ Tony’s inebriated mind supplies insidiously. “What, Mr. Honor and Justice doesn’t like when the truth gets thrown back in his face?” Tony asks mockingly, placing his hands on his hips. “Just admit you’re too much of a coward to end things. You want me to move away and be so busy in the Majors that it’s impossible for us to keep this up! Sure, blame circumstance because you’re too chickenshit to admit to yourself that this entire thing was all some midlife sexuality crisis and that once I’m out of the picture you can finally be _relieved_ that you don’t have to deal with me anymore!”

 

“You’re acting like a child!” Steve bellows, hands now clenched into fists on top of the table. He pushes his chair back slightly but makes no move to stand.

 

“Oh yeah?” Tony challenges before shoving his glass off the table as hard as he can. It smashes to the ground, amber liquid splashing across the hardwood floor as the glass shatters. “Is this _childish_ enough for you?! Oh, there goes Tony again, throwing his tantrums—” He sends his meal crashing to the floor next, uneaten food slopping onto the ground while the cheap plastic of the dinner plate remains in tact. “—Better call wise old Captain Rogers! He’s the only one who knows how to deal with such a—”

 

With speed Tony shouldn’t be surprised by, Steve is out of his chair and on him in an instant, grabbing his arms and forcing him away from the table to prevent further destruction. Tony’s thrashing attempts at escape are futile once Steve decides a better approach is to just wrap his arms around him, trapping his arms down against his sides. Tony still has legs though, and uses them by kicking out, foot managing to clip his chair and send it toppling to the side, crushing more glass underneath it.

 

“You’re drunk, Tony!” Steve yells at him, trying to wrestle him into submission. “Cut it out— You’re acting just like Howard!”

 

There’s a beat of silence after the accusation before Tony shoves at Steve’s chest with all the strength he has, Steve simultaneously releasing him and stepping back. Tony stumbles away from him, catching himself on the kitchen counter. For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is Tony’s labored breaths.

 

He lifts his gaze back to Steve, seeing the immediate regret is written all over his face. He reaches out for Tony who immediately moves out of reach, putting distance between them. “Tony, wait— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

 

Tony can’t stand to look at him any longer. He storms past Steve and grabs his coat off the rack, scooping up his car keys off Steve’s mail table by the door.

 

“Tony,” Steve calls out to him, voice raising in panic as he takes a few apprehensive steps closer. “Please, stop. Just sit back down and we can talk about this. I didn’t mean that— Put your keys down, please— You can’t drive like this—”

 

His pleas fall on deaf ears as Tony leaves the apartment, slamming the sliding metal door shut behind him. He hears a dull clang from behind him as he strides down the hallway, but he isn’t pursued.

 

Echoing winds howl through the structure of the parking garage, Tony dropping his keys twice before he’s able to get them in the door and get inside. He struggles to get the keys into the ignition, collapsing back into the seat when he finally gets the engine on and the heat going.

 

He sits there in silence, almost expecting to see Steve appear beside his window at any moment. He’d knock gently on the glass with one knuckle, face out of view from Tony’s position. He’d roll down the window by an inch and look up to see Steve’s apologetic gaze peeking at him through the gap. ‘ _Come inside_ ’, he’d request gently, tugging on the door handle which is locked. Tony would stubbornly stare back until eventually shutting the car off and unlocking the door, making no movement to get out, which forces Steve to open the door himself and bend down to scoop him up bridal style and carry him back inside. They’ll laugh about it and forget the argument ever happened after a few hushed apologies and stolen kisses. Steve reminds him to brush his teeth before bed, the two of them bumping hips and fighting over the sink’s real estate, flicking water at each other off their brushes before Steve eventually concedes. Tony has to wipe the splattered residue of watered down toothpaste off the mirror because he hates the mess. He retreats to the bedroom and has to nudge Steve over onto his own side, as the past few nights have been spent at Tony’s apartment in a much larger bed, and Steve is still adjusting to sharing his own with another person.

 

But none of that happens tonight, because Steve never turns up. Tony’s eyes suddenly snap open, not having realized he’d even shut them. The sky outside is darker than it was before. He squints blurrily at the clock in his dashboard, the time not meaning anything to him as he has no idea what time he had initially stormed out.

 

His brain is still fuzzy and laden with alcohol as he straightens up in the driver’s seat, rubbing his eyes before he puts the car in reverse and backs out of his spot.

 

He tears down the street in the Shelby Cobra, bitter because he started driving it more just because he knows it’s Steve’s favorite out of all of his cars. He presses his foot down further on the gas, eyes watering and pulse racing as the needle of the speedometer slowly climbs. He cranks the volume dial as high as it will go as the car tears out of the city. He’s surprised he doesn’t get pulled over on the bridge as he crosses into Jersey, hops on the highway, and just keeps going north.

 

He’s not sure how long he drives for. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s upstate with only blurred road signs flashing by his periphery to give him any clue as to where. His tank is low, fuel light flashing at him. He gets off at the next available exit in the middle of seemingly nowhere, traveling another mile down the single-lane road before he finally reaches the gas station.

 

The lights in the Mom-n-Pop convenience store are turned off, Tony rolling to a stop by one of the three gas pumps. He shuts the car off and lets his head hit the steering wheel. Fabulous. He’s stranded in the middle of some podunk town upstate and didn’t even bother to grab his cell before leaving Steve’s apartment.

 

Tony gets out of the car and looks around, a flickering neon light source catching his eye from across the street. There’s a run-down looking bar with only a couple of cars parked out front, but that’s more sign of life than Tony can see finding anywhere else. He takes a scrap of paper and pen out of his glovebox and jots down a quick note, sticking it under one windshield wiper. _Will be back with $$$, please don’t tow_ , along with his phone number. He shambles across the road and into the bar, hoping to find someone to throw some cash at to allow him to siphon enough gas out of their tank to get him back to civilization.

 

His prospects aren’t promising. The six or so people in the bar (including the lone bartender) all turn to look at him with suspicious eyes when he enters. He’s hoping he looks bedraggled enough to not attract any unwanted attention, hands shoved into the pockets of his long pea coat as he slowly makes his way to the bar, scanning the room for any kind-faced civilians. There’s a man sitting at one end of the bar, head lowered and face shrouded by a cap, a middle-aged couple sitting in a booth together with a shared pitcher of beer between them, and two grizzled looking men with grey beards playing darts in the corner. Tony saunters over and takes a seat at the middle of the bar, leaving ample distance between himself and the rest of the patrons. No sense in not at least grabbing a drink while he ponders his options.

 

“What can I get you?” An older looking woman with chunky highlights dyed in her hair and too much silver eyeshadow asks, looking at Tony curiously.

 

“Just some whiskey on the rocks. Whatever you have works,” Tony grunts, pulling a fifty from his wallet and tossing it onto the bar.

 

Her pencilled eyebrows draw upwards in surprise and she pockets the cash. “Jeez. I’ll blow you out back for that kind of tip.”

 

Tony smiles tersely. “You’re not my type, sorry.”

 

She shrugs and gets to work on his drink, selecting one of the few options they have for whiskey from the shelf behind her. “You’re not mine either. Too pretty.”

 

Tony manages to huff out a laugh at that. “Thanks.”

 

She sets the tumbler in front of him, placing both hands on the bar as she looks him over again. “You look familiar.”

 

“You watch a lot of Triple-A baseball?” He asks dryly.

 

“Not really.”

 

“Then I guess I’m no one special.”

 

She stares at him for a few more seconds before shrugging and walking over to the couple’s table to get them a refill on their pitcher. Tony glances out of the corner of his eye as he sips on his cheap whiskey. The bearded men are staring at him now, muttering something back and forth to each other. He can't tell what they’re saying, but the pinched expressions on their faces can’t mean it’s anything good. So he won’t be asking _them_ for help.

 

Just as he’s contemplating how generous the couple in the booth might be feeling tonight, a figure slides onto the barstool next to him. He’s got dark, shoulder-length hair tucked underneath a sun-faded red hat, strong jaw shadowed by a short beard. It’s the man from the end of the bar. “What the hell are you doing here?” He asks in a tired voice.

 

Tony almost jumps back out of his seat in the fear that he’s about to be assaulted, until the man raises his dropped chin to look at him properly. Tony stares at his face for a second, trying to work out why he looks familiar. And then it hits him— “You’re Bucky,” he utters in realization, recognizing him from a few photos around Steve’s apartment. “Steve’s Bucky.” _What are the fucking odds?_

 

The man doesn’t smile, steely gaze unwavering as he looks him over. “And you’re Tony… _Steve’s_ Tony.”

 

He feels goosebumps raise up on the back of his neck. _Does he know?_ Tony doesn’t reply, just continues to stare at the man nervously. Jury’s still out on if he’s going to have to try and duck out of the way of a right hook or not.

 

“You’re pretty far from Manhattan,” he remarks.

 

Tony lets his gaze fall to the grimy bar top. “Uh, yeah. I just… went for a drive. Had to clear my head.”

 

“Heck of a drive,” He says, taking a sip from his glass of what appears to be just plain water. He sets it down definitively on the bar, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand before standing. “Come on, I’m taking you home. It’s late. Steve’s probably worried sick by now.”

 

Anger flares up inside of him suddenly at being treated by a child by a man he just met. He twists around in his barstool, careful to keep his voice down. “Why should I go anywhere with you?”

 

Bucky sighs deeply and mutters something under his breath that suspiciously sounds like, ‘ _Should’ve known you would be this stubborn by what he’s told me_ ’. He pinches the bridge of his nose before looking back at Tony. “Because you’re clearly too drunk to get anywhere by yourself. Frankly, I don’t even know how you got here in the first place without killing yourself or somebody else... And if I let you try and drive yourself home then Steve'd kill me. So get your ass up.”

 

He heads for the door without waiting for Tony. He chances one last glance around the bar to catch a few suspicious stares from curious onlookers before he hops off the barstool and follows after Bucky.

 

The man is getting into a pickup truck that looks like it could use a paint job about five years ago. Tony looks at his roadster parked across the street and hopes no one decides to come along and vandalize it before he climbs up into the cab with a total stranger.

 

The inside of the truck is silent for a few minutes as Bucky pulls back onto the deserted highway. The dashboard clock reads almost one a.m. now, Tony letting the guilt settle over him. Steve probably is pretty worried by now, especially since Tony didn’t take any means of contact with him. Then again, Steve hadn’t even come after him in the first place, so how much does he really care?

 

“So,” Bucky eventually sighs, keeping his eyes on the road. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

 

Tony continues to glare angrily out the passenger side window, doing his best not to react. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies defensively.

 

A huff of amusement from his left. “Relax, Steve told me about you two.”

 

Tony’s head snaps over to look at Bucky, wondering if the man is trying to call his bluff. He doesn’t look conniving or manipulative, pose relaxed as he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console. “He did?” Tony asks, voice catching in his throat slightly. He and Steve had agreed on keeping things a secret for a multitude of reasons. Pepper only knows because she’s privy to everything going on in Tony’s life, and he supposes it’s only fair if Steve has someone he can talk to about their relationship as well.

 

“It took him long enough but… yeah, he did. I could tell he was stirred up about someone for a while, but he always avoided giving me any details. We’ve been best friends for a long time, I always know when he fancies someone but… It’s never been this intense. He seemed real sick over it for months before I finally got him to spill.”

 

Tony wonders if he had been missing something. He didn’t know the beginning of their relationship caused so much turmoil for him. “Were you surprised it was a man?”

 

Bucky takes a moment to consider his answer. “A little, yeah,” he says honestly. “How we grew up, that shit definitely wasn’t ever considered _okay_ , so I could see why he was so torn up about it. I was shocked at first just because Steve’s never really given any inclination of swinging that way, but I was really more surprised as _who_ it was rather than the gender. After Steve told me he was with a man, it took him months before I could put the pieces together that it was you. He never told me outright.”

 

Tony wonders if it had been easier to come out to Bucky than admit the identity of the person he was sleeping with. Realistically, he was probably just trying to keep Tony’s secret safe as well— he had no right to out even his boyfriend to _anybody—_  but he can’t help but fear that Steve didn’t give out all the details because he was _ashamed_ of Tony.

 

“So you weren’t upset?” He asks.

 

Bucky shakes his head. “No. I mean, sure, at first it was a little weird just because I thought he had been keeping this secret from me for so long, but I don’t even think Steve realized he’s gay or whatever until things between you guys started. I really don’t care who Steve shacks up with as long as they treat him right and make him happy.”

 

He seems honest. Relief washes over Tony. At least he doesn’t have to add Homophobic Childhood Friend to his escalating list of outside factors attempting to thwart their relationship.

 

“Not that I need all the details, but what did you two fight about this time?”

 

Tony doesn’t appreciate the use of _this time_ , implying that all they ever do is fight. That may have been the foundation of their budding relationship with each other, but they’ve come a long way and built up a mutual respect. They don’t have petty little arguments over every insignificant thing anymore, each of them having something to prove to the other.

 

He doesn’t know this Bucky guy aside from the stories he’s heard from Steve (and there have been plenty), but for some reason he feels comfortable enough to tell him what happened. “Long story short: A major league team is offering to buy me from the Avengers, but I don’t want to go. Steve kept trying to convince me that I should do it like he didn’t even care if it meant me having to leave.”

 

Bucky gives an unhelpful grunt of acknowledgement and seems to mull it over for a few moments. “Major league. That’s a pretty big deal.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about baseball.”

 

Bucky surprises him by laughing. “Funny. What’s the actual reason?”

 

“That _is_ the actual reason,” Tony huffs in annoyance.

 

“Listen, this is gonna be a long enough car ride, so why don’t we just cut the shit?” Bucky fixes a glare on him before turning his eyes ahead again. “Since I retired I’ve watched every single one of Steve’s games, which for the past few years, has meant I’ve also watched every single one of _your_ games. Every. Last. One. I see that look on your face every time you strike a player out, or steal a base, or really just outsmart anyone else on that field. I've seen you yell and cry and cheer over the result of a call. I've seen you throw fits over not getting your way just like I’ve seen you dogpile in on your teammates and shake hands with your opponents. And sure, maybe I’m just like any other spectator watching the games on TV or from the stands, but that much passion doesn’t come out of someone who doesn’t give a fuck about what he’s doing. So if you’re really going to try and say the reason you don’t want to take this deal is because you don’t _care_ , then you’re lying to yourself and you know it.  And I bet Steve knows it too.”

 

Tony gapes at him, uncertain of how to reply to the speech he’s just been given. It sort of reminds him of Steve’s heart-to-hearts between innings, and maybe this is where he gets it from. Tony stares out the window, pupils dilating and expanding rapidly with each spaced out street light they whiz past.

 

Bucky continues, unprompted. “I think you’re a smart enough guy to take my word on the reasoning behind what Steve says. He doesn’t ever want to feel like he’s holding someone back. He wants what’s best for everyone, even if the result isn’t great for him. Of course Steve wants you to stay in New York and be with him on the team. He’s not the type to just send you away because he’s scared.” Bucky takes a thoughtful pause, seeming to war with the words he says next. “It’s my fault that Steve ever had to step down from his career in the Majors. He was one of the best players at the time, but to him, if we couldn’t play together, he didn’t care. You two are kind of similar in that regard, I think.”

 

Him and Steve being considered _similar_ in any way shape or form makes an uneasy laugh bubble forth. They’re normally on such opposite ends of the spectrum, diametrically opposed since even before they had met face to face.

 

“I think a part of him is still guilty for how it went down… I kind of roped him into playing baseball. I was way more into it than he was when we were younger, he just wanted to do whatever the other kids were able to do at the time and prove everyone wrong that he was too sickly to keep up with us. But he stuck it out. He got really good, even better than me,” Bucky laughs. “We moved up the ranks together until we finally reached the top. He tried to warn me about my injury but I didn’t listen. And because of that, both of our dreams ended a lot earlier than either of us thought they would… He still blames himself for it, even though it was all my fault. And even if he wouldn’t have changed anything and still dropped down from the Majors because I had to retire… I think he doesn’t want you to have to make that same sacrifice if you can help it.”

 

Tony continues to stare silently out the window, mouth pressed in a tight line. “He… he didn’t make it sound like that,” he says quietly.

 

“Did you give him the chance?” Bucky counters gently.

 

Tony doesn’t really have a response to that. He had been so caught up with the argument in the heat of the moment that he can’t remember exactly what was said, the alcohol making some of the details a bit harder to grasp. He had selective hearing for the words Steve’s said that _hurt—_  or moreso for the lack of words he had wanted to hear. “I just wanted him to tell me to stay. That he’d be hurt if I had to leave.”

 

“Steve’s straightforward to a fault sometimes. He thinks so big picture that he forgets all the little things. Maybe he didn’t think he needed to say it. He figured you already knew.”

 

They stay silent for the rest of the ride. Tony drifts off a couple of times, never long enough to actually find peace. It’s almost three in the morning by the time Bucky pulls up to Steve’s apartment. Peering up at the side of the building, Tony can see a faint glow from one of the living room windows in Steve’s unit. He’s waiting up.

 

Tony hesitates before getting out, turning to look at his driver for the night. “I feel bad you had to come all this way just to drop me off and drive back home. I can pay—”

 

“I don’t want your money, Stark,” Bucky interrupts, waving him off. “I was actually coming into the city tonight anyway to visit a friend, so no skin off my nose.”

 

 _A friend who isn’t Steve?_ Tony can’t really think of any third musketeer he remembers being mentioned in all of Steve’s regalia about his and Bucky’s time spent in New York, but then again, just because he knows Steve isn’t the most social butterfly in the world doesn’t mean Bucky can’t be.

 

“If you’re sure… Thanks for bringing me back… and for the advice,” as much as Tony hates that Bucky has this level of understanding with Steve that he’ll never attain, his pride had to take the hit just this once that Steve isn’t like thermonuclear astrophysics: he can’t just learn his ins-and-outs overnight.

 

Bucky imparts a very encouraging “Don’t fuck this up” on Tony before kicking him out of the truck. He feels almost completely sober at this point as he ascends up the stairs to Steve’s apartment. He lets himself in as quietly as possible, slowly easing the sliding door shut and locking the latch behind him.

 

“Tony?” He hears sleepily from the living room. He spins around to see Steve curled under a couple of layers of blankets on the couch, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. He rubs at his eyes and squints against the light, Tony struggling to keep his ashamed gaze off the floor. “Tony,” Steve repeats in relief, immediately clambering off the couch and swiftly walking closer.

 

Before he can stop himself, his feet carry him forward to meet Steve halfway. He falls into the warm comfort of Steve’s embrace, his body solid and reaffirming. “I’m sorry,” he immediately mumbles into Steve’s chest, fingers curling against his back. “I’m sorry…”

 

“It’s okay, I’m glad you’re home safe…” He hugs Tony tightly for a few moments before holding him at arm’s distance to lock eyes. “Please don’t ever do that again. That was dangerous, Tony.”

 

He wants to start a fight, to argue that of course he _knows_ it was dangerous, but nothing bad happened so it’s fine. Instead he just swallows and nods. Tomorrow he’ll worry about sending someone for the car without Steve finding out exactly what happened. He doesn’t tell him about Bucky and their conversation, hoping that they have a mutual understanding that Steve doesn’t need to know about their happening across one another.

 

“Do you…” Tony starts, biting on his lip for a moment. Steve is just looking at him, so earnestly that it makes him want to crawl out of his skin because he doesn’t deserve that courtesy. This open and honest communication thing really isn’t his speed. “Do you not want me to stay here in New York with you?”

 

“Of _course_ I do, Tony. You know I do.”

 

“Then why are you pushing for this so hard?”

 

Steve’s eyes flicker with sadness, but they don’t stray from Tony’s face. “I’m glad I could be that person for you who made you start to love baseball. Before we were together, before we were even friends, I saw something in you that everyone else seemed to want to ignore. I want the world to see how special you really are. And of course leagues and awards and fame don’t really mean much in the grand scheme of things, but it would kill me to watch you keep playing below your level, especially if you were just staying for… for me.”

 

Tony nods slowly as Steve affirms pretty much everything Bucky had helped him fill in the blanks on. He looks up at him, worry creasing his expression. “What will this mean for us?” He asks quietly, afraid to voice it out loud.

 

Steve takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want this to be over. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

 

Tony doesn’t feel confident in that. ‘ _We’ll figure it out’_ is just passive-aggressive for ‘ _Guess we’ll keep grasping at threads until things inevitably peter out on their own’_. There are enough opposing forces that bear down on their relationship already, and if they have to add the distance and contrary schedules to that, Tony can’t imagine how things will last.

 

“You’re thinking too much,” Steve whispers, rubbing a thumb between Tony’s pinched eyebrows. “You’re exhausted. We’ll talk about it more in the morning, let’s just go to bed.”

 

Tony nods and lets Steve take his hand and walk him into the bedroom. He drops all of his clothes onto a chair, shivering slightly as he crawls under the blankets. He curls onto his side, feeling the bed dip behind him as Steve sidles up against his back, wrapping an assuring arm around his waist. He feels Steve’s warm hand lay flat over his stomach, rubbing slow circles there.

 

“Tony,” he grunts after a few moments, right as he began to slip into unconsciousness.

 

“Hm?” Tony asks sleepily. He feels a nudge against his back and twists slightly, cracking an eye open. Steve leans over him slightly to lay a chaste kiss to his lips, cupping his jaw with one hand. For the first time since their fight, Tony finally feels himself _relax_ , immediately twisting around so he can get a better angle on the kiss and deepen it.

 

“Tony,” he repeats, pulling out of the kiss. “You still taste like whiskey. Go brush your teeth.”

 

He'd can’t help but smile and throws the covers off and shuffles down the hall to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

 

Everything is finalized by the first of December. There’s some negotiation, because if Tony’s giving up playing alongside the people who had become his family, and the man he loves, he’s going to milk as much money out of those suits to help them as much as possible. He signs on for a three year contract for the Knights, the first year considered probationary. They agree on both sides to keep things quiet until the Knights can make a formal announcement in January, but rumors are already buzzing within the media.

 

With Pepper’s assistance, Tony and Steve hunt for apartments around the D.C. area. Tony wants to just throw a dart and settle wherever it lands, but Steve insists he actually try to _care_ about the place he’s living. According to his logic, Tony’s already going into this deal with his feet dragging trenches in the earth, so they need to add in as many positive factors as possible. A healthy space motivates a healthy mind, or some shit.

 

Mid-month, they both fly out to meet with real estate agents for the top contenders. While Tony likes the area of a penthouse apartment right in downtown, the space isn’t great and Steve worries it will remind him too much of a pale imitation of his apartment back home. Tony hates the small-town feeling of the houses Steve drags him to in the urban areas, the nearby neighbors already way too informal with their greetings and curious small talk. It’s _nothing_ like New York, and Steve seems to appreciate the charms a lot more than Tony.

 

They find a happy medium for both of their checklists in a three-story townhouse in one of the more historical districts. Steve is head-over-heels for the colonial architecture, the foundation of the building itself incredibly old, while most of the interior has been ripped out and redesigned to be more modern, the outside of the building getting a facelift as well. It’s a bright red painted brick with white trim, pillars on the porch out front, bay windows extruding from the house, and a small yard in the back with a black iron fence. The building itself is slim and tall, crammed in between houses and duplexes of varying styles that all appear to have been gentrified in this neighborhood. It has steep staircases leading from one floor to the next, a decently sized master bed and bath, old fashioned sconces on the walls, and even an attic area that is pretty much barren and just begging for Tony to move his workshop in. They sign all the paperwork right then and there, and the place is now his for the coming year at the very least.

 

He and Steve go for a walk around the neighborhood, dressed unassumingly, both wearing hats and sunglasses to best keep their identities hidden. No one seems to recognize them, though there are plenty of people bustling around. It’s near a university, their realtor telling them it’s mostly grad students in the area, meaning they’re more or less Tony’s age. The area is lush with restaurants and bars, museums and theaters, and it’s not too far from the stadium. On paper, it’s about as close to perfect as it can possibly be.

 

“Do you like it?” Steve asks as they walk back towards his new home, ice cream cones they picked up down the street in hand.

 

“Yeah,” Tony lies with an easy smile.

 

Steve briefly squeezes his hand and drops it away just as quickly as a car passes by at a lazy pace. “I think it’s a really good fit.”

 

“Me too.”

 

It’s no Manhattan, and there’s no Steve. So he doesn’t like it, and it’s a terrible fit.

 

* * *

 

The going away party for New Year’s is Tony’s idea. One last hurrah before he officially moves to Washington D.C. next month. They technically aren’t supposed to tell the rest of the team yet, but for once Janet completely throws the rules out the window.

 

Tony rips the bandaid off early, jumping up onto his coffee table to make the announcement pretty much immediately after the team has arrived, not wanting to bring the mood down after everyone’s already started drinking.

 

It’s not as emotional as he’s expecting. They had their suspicions, of course, but everyone puts on a brave face to wish him well in the Majors, making their own drunken speeches as the night winds on to make sure Tony knows how much he’ll be missed.

 

He finds himself slipping outside about an hour before midnight. He, along with everyone else, is significantly hammered (minus the few unlucky bastards who volunteered as DDs for the night). He stood amidst Steve and some of the older vets on the team who had also stepped down from the Majors and had nothing but sage words of wisdom to offer to Tony about the differences in the leagues. After about two minutes of the well-meaning advice, he had zoned out, standing there with polite nods and smiles before excusing himself for a smoke.

 

The balcony is freezing this high up, a light dusting of snow still clinging to the railing and the concrete outside. He has a throw blanket from inside wrapped around him, but it does little to protect him from the cold. He does his best to try and shield his lighter as he attempts to light the end of his cigarette, but the blistering winds continually put the flame out.

 

“Need a hand?”

 

Tony turns to see Natasha quietly closing the sliding glass door behind her, walking out onto the porch. She looks much more equipped to handle the December weather, bundled up in a coat, scarf, and gloves.

 

“Yes please,” he sighs, handing her the lighter. He cups both hands around the spark, Natasha easily igniting the end of the stick. He offers his case out to her, one last cigarette waiting.

 

“I’m trying to quit,” she sighs.

 

“Aren’t we all,” Tony responds as she slides the remaining cigarette out and places it between her lips. He returns the favor, numbly striking the wheel a few times before it catches.

 

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, naturally huddling closer for warmth. Smoke is the only conversation to pass between them for a few minutes, Tony watching the grey-white tendrils mixing in with the natural condensation of their breaths as they exhale. There’s plenty of noise pollution filtering up to them from below, and they can see the clusterfuck of lights and sound coming from Times Square in the distance, a better view of all the action inside on Tony’s TV.

 

They haven’t really talked since the deal went through. The last time Tony met with Janet and Fury to finalize the contracts, Natasha hadn’t come to the meeting. Tonight is the first time he’s even seen her for longer than a passing moment at the Stadium since their last game.

 

He has no idea what he’s supposed to say to her. She’s not exactly the sentimental type, and Tony is far from being a poster child for open and honest communication.

 

“So… I think the only silver lining I have right now is that I’ll be under a female coach again with the Knights,” Tony brings up, nudging Natasha. “Although I know she’ll never be as great as you.”

 

The corner of Natasha’s lips twitch. “I’m not your coach anymore, Tony. You don’t have to butter me up.” She nudges him back and takes a long drag from her cigarette. “...Coach Danvers is smart. Hopefully she’ll have the patience to deal with you.”

 

Tony chuckles. “I like to think you’ve whipped me into a much better-behaved player over the past few years.”

 

“You sure haven’t made it easy on me,” she teases, catching him in the ribs with an elbow. “But… the team is gonna miss you.”

 

He can’t help but grin, fixing his eyes on her. She’s pointedly glaring out at the city below, refusing to look over at him. “Uh huh, yeah, the team sure will. Aaaand who else?”

 

“...The fans.”

 

“Aaaaand?”

 

“Janet. Probably not Fury, but he doesn’t miss much.”

 

“Really? I figured with the whole one eye thing he might miss a lot.”

 

She snorts out a surprised laugh, the last of her burned-down cigarette falling from her lips. “You’re such a dick.”

 

“I know,” he replies, still grinning. “But what else?”

 

“You’re a dick…” she repeats, taking a deep breath. “But… It’s sad to see you go,” she admits begrudgingly.

 

Tony wants to keep up the charade of self-righteousness, but he can’t help but feel that wave of sadness he’s been trying to keep at bay when he looks at Natasha’s expression. “...I heard you were the only other person fighting for me to stay.”

 

She sighs. “That’s not exactly true. You know no one _wanted_ to see you go, Tony, myself especially. As many grey hairs as you’ve given me, I’d take a million more if it meant you could stay with us for a few more seasons,” she fixes melancholy eyes on him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “I’m going to miss you, Tony.”

 

The sentiment is too much. He wraps his arms around her and hugs her tightly, practically smothering her into his blanket. “Okay, now say that one more time so I can record it.”

 

“ _Stark_ ,” she warns, shoving him away. “Don’t make me take it back.”

 

He smiles at her, holding himself back from trying to wrangle her into another hug. “I’m gonna miss you too. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Tasha. Seriously.”

 

She smiles approvingly at him, crossing her arms. “You’re gonna go off and make us all real proud, kid. Be sure to thank me in your big victory speech when you win your first World Series. Now let’s go inside before you freeze to death,” she wraps an arm around him and leads him back into the apartment.

 

As midnight creeps closer, everyone seems to be drunk enough to forget about offering Tony well-wishes for his career, or lament to them how empty the Avengers are going to feel now that he’s gone. All his friends are too busy celebrating each other and discussing everything they want to do in the new year— which is exactly what Tony wants. This isn’t supposed to be a pity party, it’s his final stand.

 

He keeps catching himself staring at Steve from across the room. They do their best to keep their distance; It’s second nature while in public. With inhibitions lifted, it’s much harder to keep his doe eyes to himself. Tony’s wrapped into playing some ridiculous drinking game in the kitchen, while Steve is leaned against the piano in the den, laughing and chatting with Thor and a few others. Their eyes meet at some point, Steve flashing him a small smile and a tiny wave of acknowledgement. God, he can be so cute sometimes. He’s pulled away from admiring his boyfriend and back into whatever heinous action he’s meant to perform after losing a game of Rock Paper Scissors to Quill.

 

With two minutes left of ‘93, everyone piles into Tony’s living room, all of them huddled around the TV mounted above the fireplace to watch the ball drop. Tony is towards the back of the group, Steve returning from the bathroom to slide up next to him. The sides of their hands brush together, Tony’s eyes darting around in alert to see if they’re in view of anyone. There’s plenty of discordant noise as everyone carries on conversation and starts talking about the host that year and other unimportant things being flashed about on the screen, no one in particular paying them any mind.

 

Steve leans in close to him, keeping his voice low, “As glad as I am everyone is having fun, I kind of wish it was just the two of us so I could kiss you at midnight.”

 

A shiver travels down Tony’s spine and he has to bite down on his lip to keep himself from smiling too much. “Don’t worry,” he responds vaguely. “I have a plan.”

 

Steve casts him a suspicious look but leans out of Tony’s space before they raise flags for anyone else. They both keep their eyes ahead and focus on the countdown, everyone getting ready with the confetti poppers in hand. Tony will be sure to tip the maids extra well tomorrow.

 

The raucous group all come together to start the final countdown, ten seconds left in the year. Tony keeps his eyes on everyone sitting and standing in front of him, all their eyes glued to the TV, and away from him and Steve. It’s a little risky, but as long as his little trick works out, they shouldn’t have anything to worry about.

 

_Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!_

 

Suddenly, all the electricity in the apartment cuts out, a loud burst of electrical energy suddenly shutting off resounding around the apartment. There’s sounds of confusion from all the people in the room, as well as a few startled yelps at the sudden blackout. Tony turns semi-blinded and reaches for Steve, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him down into a kiss.

 

He can tell Steve is taken by surprise by it all, but quickly catches on to what Tony had done. They only have a few seconds, but Tony pours as much love and passion as he can into those stolen moments in the darkness. He slides his hands into Steve’s hair, feeling the man’s tongue slide against his own. He wants to let himself get lost in the moment, to jump up into Steve’s arms and be swung around and forget that in a few short weeks he’ll be leaving for an undetermined amount of time. He won’t get to come home to this embrace every day, or wake up to this smell, or feel these lips against his own.

 

Steve’s hands are clutching so tightly to Tony he almost doesn’t try to pull away, but their ten seconds are up, and he has to. He plants his hands firmly on Steve’s chest and pushes himself away, taking a few steps back and wiping a hand over his kiss-bitten lips. He feels someone bump into his back, and then the lights come back on.

 

Groans echo throughout the room as everyone covers their face, eyes probably having just started to adjust to the darkness before everything suddenly became bright again. Tony feigns confusion like everyone else, taking another few steps to separate himself from a blushing Steve who is trying to fix the hair sticking up on the back of his head.

 

“Sorry guys! Must’ve been some kind of power surge in the building!” Tony yells over all the commotion. They don’t need to know that he’s the one who rigged it.

 

Steve is covering his mouth, Tony able to see the edge of one dimple as he tries to hide a smile away from everyone else. At this time last year, Tony was so unsure of where they stood, or what he was getting himself into. Now, he feels the same way about where their relationship will go from here, but seeing the way Steve looks at him— Like no one else in the room is even there— he’s not so worried anymore.

 

They’ll make this work. They have to.

 

February, 1994 

 

The alarm clock blares incessantly at him, lazy arm snaking its way out from the sheets to palm at it until he manages to hit the snooze button. The skylight on his slanted ceiling casts a long rectangle of light onto the far wall, fuzzy and faded yellow that slowly saturates around the edges as dawn creeps closer and Tony’s alarm continues to go off every five minutes. He eventually peels himself out of bed to shut it off fully, looking back at the empty space next to him.

 

There’s no sound of the shower going down the hall from Steve returning from his morning run. The old house is quiet save for the slight creaking of wood as Tony grips the railing and makes his way down the mahogany stairs of doom, missing the very horizontal layout of his old apartment more and more every day. Checking the oversized clock on the wall in his living room, he’s got maybe five minutes before the tornado comes blowing through his home.

 

There’s no Steve in his kitchen already making him breakfast, kissing him against the temple before he sits down at his rickety old table with the newspaper, sliding the crossword insert down towards Tony’s seat. He gets out his skillet and cracks a couple of eggs and throws some strips of bacon down into it, annoyed when he, once again, breaks the yolk trying to flip it. Steve always made it look so easy…

 

A redundant banging on his front door echoes through the house before Tony hears it swing open, keys jingling in the lock. “Toooonyyyyy?” A voice calls up the stairs. He can hear footsteps bounding up them two at a time, so cavalier.

 

“I’m down here, dipshit!” Tony yells from the kitchen, his eggs quickly turning from over easy to completely scrambled as he gives up on trying to recover his breakfast.

 

He hears his house guest come tromping back down the stairs, the banister squeaking in protest while he swings around it like he’s in a musical and comes bounding towards the kitchen in the back of the house.

 

“Aw, you made me breakfast, you shouldn’t have!” The man grins, leaning casually against the door frame, outfitted in a neon tracksuit and windswept hair as if he just stepped out of a J.C. Penney ad.

 

Tony scrapes the food out of the skillet and onto his plate before flinging his spatula into the sink. “Fuck off, Ty.”

 

“Hey now, that’s no way to speak to your Captain.”

 

As soon as Tony knew he was going to be joining the Knights, he immediately started doing his research, managing to convince Hill and Coulson to send him all their player files. He knew about Sam Wilson, Steve’s friend who used to play for the Avengers, and there were only one or two other players he recognized from the Triple-A League. The biggest shock was finding Tiberius Stone’s name slated on the list.

 

Tiberius’ family owned a smaller manufacturing company that had been partnered with Stark Industries when they were kids, eventually being bought out and absorbed fully into the SI brand. They had a good relationship with the Stones, both their parents close friends and Tony and Tiberius being very close in age. One of the last boarding schools Tony had gone to only allowed him admission because of the Stones’ pull as donors and Tiberius being a star pupil. Despite Tony being a few years younger than him, they had struck up a friendly rivalry at the time, constantly fighting for top marks in their class— and once they got old enough to care about that sort of thing— attention from girls. Their paths had split once Tony went off to MIT and Ty went to business school, also becoming a star pitcher on the university’s baseball team. He was scouted immediately for the Majors out of college, always jokingly promising Howard over their dual family vacations to the villa in Florence that if he ever had to step down down he would play for the Irons.

 

He’s bounced around between teams since he started, but has been playing the longest for the Knights for the past four seasons. The Captain position is definitely just a figurehead status symbol in the Majors, most teams phasing it out completely. Ty was given the title last season but doesn’t do much in regards to assisting their coach or working with players one-on-one. Since Tony arrived in D.C. for early Spring training, his old childhood friend had of course taken a natural shine to him. He’s been showing up at Tony’s apartment six days out of the week at the ass crack of dawn so they can run or bike the 5-mile distance to the stadium, and half the time follows him home to continue the harassment. He’s a total geek for fitness and form, living off of protein powders and preaching the health benefits of multivitamins and yoga if Tony would just give them a chance...

 

As Tony starts scarfing down his food at the counter, Ty crosses over to the fridge and pulls out a carton of orange juice, uncapping it and taking an experimental sniff. “Did you… pour champagne in this?”

 

“Everybody likes mimosas, pour me a glass would’ya?”

 

Ty smiles at him and walks over to the cabinets before tipping the carton over and dumping it down the sink.

 

“Hey!” Tony complains, immediately trying to wrestle the container out of his hand, even after it’s been emptied. Ty is lean and tall, having several inches on Tony, making it easy to hold it overhead and out of reach. It feels like they’re kids all over again.

 

“You’ll thank me later!” Ty laughs, shaking out the last droplets and tossing it in the recycling bin. “You can get trashed all you want afterwards, but you know you’re not allowed to drink before practice and games.”

 

Ah yes, the very strict rules that every player for the Knights is supposed to adhere to. Coach Danvers runs a tight ship, that’s for certain. He’s already been given the entire spiel about appropriate behavior, dangerous activities that could risk injury outside of the field, drinking and smoking, diet, and all things he had to sign a fucking _contract_ for. And here Tony didn’t think he could get a coach scarier than Natasha— boy, was he wrong.

 

He polishes off the last of his breakfast, lamenting that he can’t wash it down with his spiked orange juice before he slips on his sneakers and heads for the door with Ty. “So we riding or running today?”

 

“Riding,” Ty grabs Tony’s bike helmet off the coat rack by the door and tosses it to him. “But we really should take at least fifteen minutes to stretch to prevent cramping, especially since you just ate such a high protein meal—”

 

“If you wanna show up late, be my guest. I like my dick attached to my body and would rather not have Carol rip it off,” Tony interrupts, bounding down his stoop. He unlocks his bike from the rack, waiting impatiently as Ty insists on putting on his stupid fingerless gloves and adjusting the stupid side mirror on his helmet.

 

He’s still the same rule-following dweeb from when they were kids, but his appearance has certainly changed. People mistook them as brothers when they were younger, same dark hair and intelligent eyes, but Ty’s were shrouded by thick-framed spectacles. He’s slim but well-built, lithe muscles similar to Tony’s with an added height that leaves him with an impressive stature— He might even be taller than Thor. His once brunette hair has been bleached blonde, but he’s been allowing the roots to grow back out. Tony’s first comment to him was that if he’s not careful with his haircuts in the next couple of months, he might be left with some very unfortunate looking frosted tips.

 

“Are you nervous about today?” Ty asks over the passing wind as they pedal down the bike lane side by side, occasionally drifting into a tighter, linear formation when they need to make room for other passersby.

 

“Why would I be nervous?” Tony asks flippantly.

 

Ty shrugs. “Meeting the entire team for the first time and all. I was nervous on my first day.”

 

“Yeah well you’re not me,” he replies confidently before picking up the speed and taking the lead on their commute.

 

Tony isn’t bluffing when he says that. For the past month he’s been in the early spring training specifically for pitchers, of which there are many more on his new team. Counting the whole 40-man roster, Tony is one of eight. He’s sure because of his talent he’ll be put on the active 25-man roster for the entire season, but he’s already feeling a very different energy from the teammates he’s met thus far. About half have been the usual amount of friendly, but the others have pretty much just ignored his existence altogether. Probably just bitter that he’ll more likely than not be taking away their opportunities to see actual play time this season.

 

Or maybe it’s jealousy that Coach Danvers has taken such an interest in him. Tony knew from what Pierce had said that she had been campaigning to get him on the team for quite some time now. Since day one of training she’s kept a close eye on him, mostly asking him questions about his play style and the judgments he makes for pitches, rather than actually offering critiques. She hasn’t tried to correct his form, suggested changes, or really given him any indication or direction. She just asks him to pitch, to run, to throw, to catch— really do anything and just jots something down on her clipboard, nods, and tells him to keep doing what he’s doing before moving onto another player.

 

They’re finally at the point where the rest of the team will now be joining them for practices, all of which Tony has yet to meet. He has no disillusions that this will be anything like the Avengers, but even if the Knights don’t become like a second family to them, he hopes they won’t be as cold as the Irons had felt.

 

* * *

 

 

“I hate it here,” Tony declares to Steve on their nightly phone call a month later.

 

“Well hello to you to,” Steve greets in an amused tone. “What happened today?”

 

He sighs, picking at the frayed sleeve edges of Steve’s oversized sweater he’s taken to sleeping in on particularly lonely nights— which is steadily becoming most of them. “Nothing in particular, I guess. It’s just the same as every other day. Practice is no fun, no one talks to me during the breaks, all the other pitchers hate me, and I miss all of you guys.”

 

“Well…” he can hear the struggle in Steve’s voice of him trying to find the bright side for Tony who wears a permanent pair of sunglasses. “Your first league game is tomorrow right? That’s exciting! And it’s in New York!”

 

Tony frowns. “It’s a double-header. And we’re flying in and out with no extra time.”

 

“Maybe the time in between—”

 

“It’s the same time as your friendly, I already checked.”

 

Steve sighs. “At least you’ll be close… that’s gotta help, right? Maybe after our game I’ll be able to make it over to the Bronx and catch the end of yours.”

 

“I won’t get my hopes up,” Tony mutters, hearing Steve’s crackly sigh again. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to bring you down. It sucks, but we knew it would. Tell me about the team. How are you guys doing so far?”

 

The Avengers have gotten a lot of new recruits with Tony and a few others leaving, just as Janet had been pushing for. Most of the pillars still remain, the biggest loss from the season clearly their star pitcher. Steve feels optimistic about their chances this year, but everyone is clearly taking some time adjusting to the new lineup that is now very devoid of one hotheaded frontman.

 

“And the new pitchers? I haven’t heard a lot about them.”

 

“They’re actually not bad. Retz came up from the double-As and he’s pretty good. Doesn’t have a lot of stamina, but he’ll make for a good relief pitcher in a pinch. The other kid, though, he’s kind of a little surprise rockstar. I think he’s about seventeen or so? Looks younger than that even. Janet fished him straight out of the rookies, but he’s got some crazy talent.”

 

“Sounds like you’re trying to tell me I’ve been replaced,” Tony says with a smile. “What’s his name?”

 

“Parker. Peter Parker. Good kid, grew up in Queens,” Steve pauses. “He’s actually a huge fan of yours.”

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Yeah. He was devastated that he just barely missed you. I think he was really looking for a mentor,” Steve laughs. “He never shuts up about you, and I guess Nat let it slip to him that we were pretty close. I’ve got about an entire notebook of questions he wants to ask you one day that I told him I’d pass along.”

 

Tony smiles, his heart aching for his old team even more. “I’d be a shit mentor anyway. He’s better off having you.”

 

“Maybe.” They sit in silence for a moment, just enjoying each other’s company. Tony’s usually up in his workshop tinkering during calls like this, with Steve over two hundred miles away either cooking dinner or sketching. “I’ll already be prepping with Nat when your flight lands, but maybe I can meet you at the airport before you go.”

 

Tony grunts. “Coulson and Hill run a pretty tight ship and don’t really let us out of their sights. But I suppose I could sneak away to the bathroom for a quickie in the stall…”

 

Steve laughs. “I just meant to say a quick hello…” Something in his demeanor changes. He hears a bit of movement on the other line— making himself comfortable? “But it _has_ been pretty lonely these past couple months without you…”

 

Tony’s already laying in bed, rolling onto his back so he can shove his hand into his sweatpants. He’s already getting hard after hearing Steve’s voice drop into that husky register. Phone sex has become a regular occurrence ever since their separation, and while it’s no substitute for the real thing, Tony gets a thrill out of it. It’s intimate, in a strange way. He doesn't have Steve’s physical presence here to bring him off, just has to lose himself in the moment, hinged on the sound of his voice. While he’s not as confident in his dirty talking as Tony is, he’s gotten better as his reservations about it slowly slip away.

 

“Oh yeah?” Tony asks, slowly stroking himself. “I wasn’t kidding about the quickie. If I’m seeing you for the first time in months, I’m pretty sure I’ll jump your bones no matter where we are.”

 

Steve hums. “And I know how much you love public sex…”

 

“I know how much you love to keep me quiet,” Tony counters with a grin, a moan slipping out as he feels precome dribble from his tip, coating his fingers. “Please tell me you’re touching yourself.”

 

“Of course,” Steve replies, breath hitching.

 

“Describe it,” Tony sighs, tightening his fist and sinking back into his pillows, closing his eyes. He spreads his legs on instinct, wishing Steve could be in that space, leaning over him and covering his body as his hardness hangs down between them, Steve pulling himself off, those intense blue eyes locked on his own—

 

“Tony? Tooonyyyyy…” Comes a voice from downstairs.

 

“Shit—” Tony sits up, wincing when he grips himself a little too tightly at the base. His phone falls away from his ear, hand shooting out of his pants to grab at some tissues in his nightstand and clean himself up. He does his best to tuck his erection away. “I’ll be down in a second!” He yells through his thankfully locked door. He didn’t even hear him come in, and that fucker is _far_ from stealthy. He picks up his phone with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Ty is here.”

 

He hears a tense laugh from Steve. “That’s okay. I should probably go to bed anyway. You too.”

 

“Rain check? Tomorrow at the LaGuardia airport bathroom?” Tony gets to his feet and tries to will away his hard-on.

 

Another laugh. “We’ll see about that. Good luck tomorrow. You’ll be great.”

 

“Thanks, you too.”

 

“Hey, Tony,” Steve says before he can hang up. “Things are going to get better, okay? They will.”

 

“Mmhm,” Tony hums, unconvinced.

 

“I love you.”

 

“Love you more.”

 

Steve is wrong. Months go by, and Tony doesn’t feel like it’s getting any better. Their schedules are as hectic as expected, both of them constantly traveling and not always in the position to call each other and have to face questioning glances from those around them as to who they’re talking to. He manages to convince Steve to buy a computer and discover the wonders of email. It’s not quite the same as being able to talk to each other, but they can at least exchange basic information a few times a week just to catch each other up.

 

Games are an entirely new experience. Tony isn’t wavered by the new level of athletes he’s facing, but it’s definitely not the same as the Triple-As. There’s no such thing as _laid back_ here in the Majors. Everyone is fighting for a spot on that roster, and there are some games where even Tony ends up bench warming.

 

He doesn't pitch every game, either. Carol seems to favor him for a good number of innings when he is slated for that position, which had been his only reservation coming in. The reason the All-Star Games frustrated him so much was because there were more people vying for his position, and plenty of directions that coaches can go in. The Knights are the same in that regard, which makes it all the more important that Tony proves he deserves to be here. He can’t slip up now and let everyone’s efforts to get him here go to waste. He may not be able to pitch an entire game like he could with the Avengers, but Carol finds other ways to make him useful.

 

The only upside to having more talented pitchers on reserve is that it’s a lot less damaging to let Tony play the field a bit. Natasha experimented with this in the past, but ultimately made the right call in having Tony pitch, occasionally pulling the DH from the lineup so he could bat as well. While on the pitcher’s mound for the Knights, he’s in for about two to five innings. He and Carol experiment together to find the best infield option for him, hoping to improve some of his already incredible stats that have been stagnant during his time with the Avengers. He can hold his own across all the bases. On First, he can take advantage of left-handed throws, his flexibility, and receiving throws from across the field. He tags out batters before they can get to his base, helping stop the momentum of the other team before it can even get started. He can pivot on a double play while on Second, quick reflexes with his hands and feet following snap judgments needed in the middle of a play. He’s got an accurate arm for Third, and does well to defend the hot corner and get the ball to home when needed. Shortstop is the most challenging of all, and Tony is only able to keep up thanks to all the tips and tricks he’s learned from watching and working with Steve over the years.

 

Carol sets a pattern for Tony that wavers slightly depending on their opponent and if they’re playing one or two games that day, but is still predictable enough. She’ll play him for an entire game, all nine or more innings, and then let him have the next day off to sit on the bench and check in with the PTs. He also takes those days as an opportunity to sneak in a quick hour-and-a-half flight to New York for the day just to visit with Steve in secret.

 

He’s only called out by Carol once, after the very first time he does this. He’s late to practice one morning after his flight back into D.C. is delayed. Tony’s more than willing to take the hit of staying late or being banned from press junkets or whatever it is that’s outlined in all the subsections and fine print of the stupid expected behavior contract he signed.

 

“Did you have a good trip?” She greets him inside the stadium, stepping in front of him as he tries to pass her to get to the locker room.

 

He rocks back on his heels slightly, adjusting his duffel over one shoulder. “A good trip?”

 

Her arms are crossed, expression unimpressed at his cluelessness. “Coulson and Hill track your every move, Stark. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

 

Tony sighs, knowing the jig is up. “Coach, I really just needed—”

 

She holds up a hand. “Save the excuses. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your performance, I don’t care. I get it, being homesick. I would run back to Boston in a heartbeat if I had the time. I’ll look the other way for now, but as soon as it makes you miss a game or practice, or if your numbers start to slip, you’re cut off, got it?” She cuffs the back of his head and sends him in to get changed.

 

 _Higher, further, faster_ , is her repeated mantra. They start spending more and more time together, taking advantage of the nice facilities that the Nationals Stadium holds. Other than doing one-on-one training in the gyms, focusing on different areas to improve Tony’s physicality, there’s also an entire room of computers and monitors dedicated to running back plays and viewing games. Other than Ty who has a life of his own, Tony doesn’t really have any other friends in the area to spend his time with. He starts sticking around after home games to review the tapes. Whereas before he would normally be examining his opponents to try and work apart tells or patterns in their play style, these Major League players are a lot more versatile than most of the Triple-A. They’re not so one-note, making it much more difficult to find chinks in the armor. Instead, he focuses his attention on their own team to see where improvements can be made.

 

The Knights may not be the most welcoming (aside from Sam Wilson, who Tony is pretty sure doesn’t really like him and is only nice to him as a courtesy to Steve), but Tony still wants to be on a winning team. He doesn’t want their approval, but he deserves their respect. He presents his findings to Carol who gives him the validation he’s searching for, more often bypassing their supposed team captain to instead have Tony offer his input towards strategies and plays.

 

Career-wise, it’s a great time for Tony. His talent and successful plays are constantly headlining in the sports world, the buzz never quite dying down around the already infamous player who has finally joined the big leagues. Whether he wants to admit it or not… He’s actually _enjoying_ playing. It’s a new challenge to be competing with people at his level, and Tony’s always been a sucker for a challenge. He’s also far from bored with Carol rotating him through positions every now and again, molding him into a jack-of-all-trades and formidable ace-in-the-hole. The Knights are on a winning streak, already expected to be a contender for the World Series despite the season only being half-over.

 

Outside of the stadium, things are less productive. Tony throws himself into his training and his studies of their team so he’s completely wiped by the time he returns to his empty home. As long as he’s focusing on other things, he doesn’t have to think about how lonely he is. It’s something he’s practiced for most of his life, but the past couple of years lulled him into a false sense of security. The emails between himself and Steve grow less and less frequent. Tony forgets his promises to call Steve back, and when he does remember, it ends up going to voicemail. The Avengers are plenty busy as well, treading water near the top of the pack for the Triple-A so that they can hopefully go to the Championship once again. Their stolen days together turn into a few hours at a time. It’s harder to find dates where their away games match up in nearby cities. Their times being able to see each other become more spaced out from weeks to months. No one can be at fault for their relationship slipping during the height of both of their seasons.

 

He just has to stick it out for a few more months. While he’ll still have to regularly train and check in with Carol during the off season, he’ll at least get a couple of months of peace and quiet with Steve, closing the distance between them before the next season begins and separates them once more. Selfishly enough, he’d rather them not go to the World Series just so he gets an additional few weeks with his boyfriend.

 

Tony collapses onto the hotel bed in exhaustion, happy that Hill and Coulson let him pay extra so that he gets his own suite. He’ll occasionally share a room with Ty, but that also usually means waking up at 5 a.m. to go for a jog before the game. They’ve been on a traveling streak for away games and Tony just doesn’t have it in him.

 

They’re playing against Detroit in the morning and for once Tony plans on getting a good night’s rest. He’s coming in as a starting pitcher after the past few games being slated for first base. Carol even promised to keep him in for the entire game if he does well enough. His stamina has been improving, and without the added stress of needing to offensively bat and run bases, he might just be able to pull it off and not need a relief.

 

It’s not terribly late when he starts to drift off, and a knock comes to his door. Even though the knocking is a dead giveaway that it’s not Ty, Tony doesn’t know who else would be visiting him right now. He wouldn’t put it past the man to go down to the front desk and get a key to his room to just let himself in. Ty is the regular starting pitcher for the Knights, but has been resting his back for the past few weeks. Most likely he’s just dropping in to offer some sage words of wisdom that Tony will surely ignore.

 

He’s midway through a yawn as he answers the door, too tired to look through the peephole first. “Ty, this better have been worth waking me up— Steve?”

 

Tony almost pinches himself in case he’s dreaming. Steve is standing in his door in plain jeans and a dark hoodie despite it being the middle of Summer. He’s got a hat in one hand, blonde locks messy and flat in some areas from being tucked underneath it. He’s running a hand through them to try and fix them when Tony opens the door, offering that endearing Steve Rogers smile. “Sorry, were you expecting someone else?”

 

Tony quickly glances around both ends of the hall before grabbing Steve by the front of his sweatshirt and yanking him inside. He kicks the door shut and locks it behind him, practically climbing up into Steve’s arms. Steve catches his weight, hoisting him up so that their lips can meet in a clumsy reunion. “Oh my god,” Tony says between kisses, holding onto his face just to make extra sure he’s real. “What are you— Doing here?”

 

Steve isn’t able to answer for a minute or so as he stumbles back into the room, falling onto the bed with Tony on top of him. Their lips are locked together, Tony eventually sitting up so he can yank his shirt off over his head. “I drove up from Toledo we just—” Tony pushes Steve’s arms up so he can maneuver his hoodie off over his head, his haste getting it caught up around his neck for a moment until Steve can reach down to remove it himself. “We just landed a couple of hours ago but the game is getting rescheduled so I rented a car— Ah—” Steve hisses as Tony rubs a hand over his jean-covered crotch, his other hand deftly undoing his belt and tossing it to the side.

 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Tony grins down at him, pressing more kisses across his face. He’s clean shaven, Tony’s lips dragging over his sharp jaw with no resistance of stubble.

 

“I wanted to surprise you,” Steve smiles back at him. He soothes his hands over Tony’s antsy hands, trying to move everywhere at once to undress them and feel the body he hasn’t felt in months. He runs his warm palms over Tony’s bare arms, cupping his face to pull him into a much less frantic kiss. “It’s been so long,” he groans as Tony unzips his pants and slips his hand beneath his underwear.

 

“I missed you so fucking much,” Tony breaths into his mouth. He slides down Steve’s body, mouth trailing over the planes of muscle along his chest. He braces a hand against his abdomen, feeling the muscles twitch and tighten there as his teeth catch over one of Steve’s nipples. He feels the man’s hand clutch the back of his head, fisting Tony's hair as he lets his tongue lave over the sensitive bud. “How much time do we have?” He asks before switching sides to give the other nipple equal attention.

 

“I don’t have to be... back until morning,” Steve is already breathless, head thrown back against the pillow as his back arches up to Tony. Discovering how sensitive the man’s chest is has been one of the more thrilling aspects of them learning how each other’s bodies work, Tony taking full advantage of it when dragging out the foreplay until he can get Steve writhing. “The team is… staying on Ohio for the night… since we play in Indianapolis the next day—”

 

“Cool. You can tell me all about your schedule after you fuck me, Steve,” Tony climbs off of him long enough to shove his pants off the rest of the way and kick them to the other end of the room, yanking Steve’s down his legs as well.

 

Steve is evidently full of surprises tonight, flipping them over and rolling Tony onto his stomach. He grabs him by the hips, hiking them up until he’s on his knees and elbows, leaning over his body to kiss his way down his spine until—

 

“Jesus fucking chri— _Steve_ ,” Tony gasps out, entire body jerking forward as Steve’s warm tongue swipes over his asshole. His fingers dig into Tony’s hips hard enough to bruise as he eats him out from behind, tongue prodding at the tight ring of muscle to slowly ease him open. He teases Tony like that for what feels like _decades_ , breathing against the sensitive furl of skin, gently teasing at it with just the tip of his tongue penetrating him. Of all the people he’s been with, no one has ever made Tony _literally_ bite into his pillow, but he’s afraid if he doesn’t have something in his mouth than his neighbors are going to hear him screaming another man’s name.

 

They do their best to keep their vocalizations quiet, but there’s little to be done about the sound of the headboard repeatedly smacking into the wall and the frame creaking beneath them as they finally get out all the pent-up sexual energy that’s been saved up for several weeks now.

 

 _So much for getting a good night’s sleep_ , Tony thinks as he lies on top of his covers next to Steve, both of them on their backs and covered in sweat. Their labored panting fills the room as they come down from what must’ve been the third round of marathon sex. Tony is sore and aching in all the right places, knowing it’s going to affect his pitching tomorrow but not even caring. Really, this has just been a little extra stamina conditioning in before the game. Carol should _commend_ his efforts and due diligence.

 

Once they’ve booth cooled down, they share a quick shower and collapse onto the second bed in the room that hasn’t been completely ruined with sweat and come. It’s late by the time Tony passes out, curled against Steve with his face tucked into his chest. It feels like he blinks and suddenly it’s early morning, the alarm clock ringing before the sun has even come up. It’s time for Steve to go, and it takes every ounce of self control for Tony not to say fuck it and just go with him.

 

He _almost_ convinces Steve to stick around for the morning sex, but as usual, Steve is the adult for both of them and makes the right decision. Tony is already going to be worn out before the match today, and really should try and nab a couple more hours of rest with no further strenuous activities, and Steve has to get back to Toledo before anyone notices he’s gone. They dress quickly and Tony insists on seeing him out, selfishly wanting to draw out every last second of them being together.

 

He has no idea when they’ll have another opportunity to see each other like this again. Even with his face shrouded underneath a baseball cap, hood, and sunglasses, Tony openly gazes at him in the soft morning light. He really is gorgeous, and it’s quiet moments like these that Tony wonders what not-crappy thing he ever did in life to deserve someone so kind. So good.

 

Bittersweetness closes up his throat as they sneak out of the back exit of the hotel and walk the couple of blocks down the street to where Steve had parked. They’re on an empty, dilapidated street, Tony holding Steve’s hand openly because he knows he’ll have to let go at any moment. He still clings to him as they make it to the car, Steve laughing and gently trying to pry Tony’s hands off the soft material of his hoodie.

 

“I have to go,” Steve insists softly, plucking each of Tony’s fingers to open up his closed fist. Rather than push Tony’s hands away, he captures both of them within his own, thumbs smoothing gingerly over his calloused palms. “Let’s keep an eye on our schedules okay? Maybe we can see each other on the road again soon. We’ve got a couple days break next month for a weekend training camp. I might be able to convince Nat to let me duck out and I can come to D.C.”

 

Tony nods, knowing not to hold his breath. Plenty of the plans they’ve made to try and meet up have fallen through. He’s come to realize it hurts a lot less if he doesn’t expect anything at all from people. Still, Steve keeps finding new ways to surprise him and at least restore an ounce of faith he has in humanity as a whole. The brief, overnight stay isn’t just an opportunity for a good lay; It’s Steve showing him that all the effort is worth it. That he’s worth it.

 

He knows their rules and the reason for caution, but he’s feeling bold. It’s early, there’s no one around, and Tony can’t bear to let Steve go without one last parting kiss. He leans down to stop Steve from entering the car completely, pressing their lips together in a melancholy goodbye. He expects it to be over just like that, a quick farewell, but Steve melts against him. Tony sighs against his mouth, running his hands over his body to just _feel_ the man in his arms. Steve’s hands slide reassuringly into his hair, fingers curling against his neck, holding him steadfast.

 

“You have to go,” Tony whispers against his lips. His eyes are closed and he refuses to open them just yet. Not until he’s gone. He wants to remember his last sight of Steve as the sincere expression on his face, eyes full of love and surprise as Tony leans in to kiss him out in the open, all unbridled affection and heartfelt abandon.

 

He steps back onto the curb, eyes still shut as he hears the car door close. The sound of the engine starts up and slowly fades into the distance, leaving Tony alone again. He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and walks back to the hotel.

 

That single action comes back to bite Tony in the ass. He just isn’t expecting it to happen so soon.

 

It’s only two days later when the story breaks. Back in D.C., after their last week and a half of travel, Tony wakes up to dozens of missed calls and pages, and a pounding on his front door.

 

He makes his way down leisurely at first until he realizes he can hear a mass of voices outside. He almost trips and falls down the last flight of steps, barely catching himself on the old wooden railing. Dressed in just a tank top and pajama pants, he opens the door to see Coulson and Hill on his porch, along with a cop car on the street, and a swarm of reporters and photographers being ushered back by two police officers.

 

Flashes of cameras immediately start going off now that Tony has appeared, the throng of them pushing against the human barrier of the police and hurling so many questions over one another that Tony can’t make out a single word. “Inside,” Hill orders, planting a hand on Tony’s chest to push him back into his house. They enter quickly and slam and lock the door behind them.

 

“What the fuck’s going—”

 

“Sit down,” Hill commands harshly, giving him another push towards the living room. She’s definitely got more of a spine out of the two of them, but she’s usually not this brash. Confused, he sits down in an armchair, staring at both of them in confusion. She pulls a folder out of her messenger bag and tosses it down onto the coffee table, the cover flapping open. “Care to explain?”

 

Tony is about to ask her where she gets off charging into his house and yelling in his face until he sees the picture staring up at him in the folder. Tabloid covers are usually a hideous amalgamation of a bunch of different celebrity photos all jammed in and highlighted with red and yellow circles to grab people’s attention, text slapped down clumsily in heavy fonts of varying sizes with all the outlandish claims promised to be expanded on inside. This one is just a single photo blown up to fill the cover, and bold white block letters proclaiming: **_IS TONY STARK GAY?_ ** with the subtitle of _A SECRET LOVE AFFAIR WITH ANOTHER MAN EXPOSED_ beneath it.

 

The photo is grainy and poor quality, clearly edited to be brightened despite it making the resolution much worse with the additional contrast, but it’s clear enough. From the angle the photo was taken at, somewhere down the block and across the street, captured with some kind of zoom lens, Tony’s face is clearly visible, but the man he’s locking lips with is not. He flips the magazine open to the page marked with a colored tab by Hill, seeing the full spread inside.

 

There’s more photos, capturing the entire encounter from start to finish, with pages of written speculation about the identity of the mystery man, where he came from, and how long Tony’s been hiding this secret. The photos of the kiss alone aren’t enough to be convincing that it is in fact, Tony Stark making out with that man against his car in the middle of some abandoned street in Detroit. From certain angles, it could be argued that it could be any brunette man of slightly below average height who happens to bear resemblance to the world famous pitcher, but there are other photos that make his identity clear. Them approaching the car holding hands, Tony holding the door as the man starts to get inside, and after the car has driven away there are clear, unblocked shots that it’s undoubtedly Tony Stark.

 

None of the pictures are able to capture Steve’s identity. He’s mostly got his back to the camera in the shots, face shrouded by his outerwear or Tony’s face blocking it as they kiss. And to think Tony always made fun of Steve’s idea of a “disguise” when going out, Tony not doing the same because he hadn’t expected to see anyone when walking Steve to his car, or do such an impulsive thing.

 

He flips through more photos and inserts that are in the folder, more magazines covering the story, further blowing up cropped images of Steve’s face to try and piece together the identity of the mystery man that’s stolen the heart of Tony Stark. Newspaper headlines and clippings, and even a stack of what appears to be the original, raw photos taken.

 

Tony stares down at the folder, mouth hanging open, unable to look up at Hill and Coulson standing in the center of his living room with crossed arms. Coulson picks up a remote to turn on the TV, flipping through the news and sports channels.

 

They’re all covering the story. Tony doesn’t look up, but he can hear the snippets of audio as Coulson cruelly channel surfs through the beginnings of his career falling apart.

 

_—caught on camera two days ago, the morning of the game against the Detroit Tigers, kissing another man—_

 

_—could he be gay? The top story today centers around Tony Stark, recent addition to the Major League Baseball team—_

 

_—Stark has a reputation as a ladies man, but may have been using that to hide his homosexual secret all along—_

 

_—so far unable to identify the other man in the photos—_

 

_—has not commented on rumors of his homosexual tendencies in the past—_

 

_—claiming that he should be banned from the sport completely—_

 

_—were not able to get official word from current team managers from the Knights or former managers, Janet Van Dyne or Pepper Potts—_

 

_—photographer claims to have seen what could’ve been an Ohio license plate as he drove off, but could not grab a clear image to confirm—_

 

_—brings the question back to the front of everyone’s minds, can gay men actually play sports to the same ability as—_

 

Tony picks up a decorative paperweight from his coffee table and hurls it at the wall, Coulson and Hill both ducking away from the impact. It shatters against the TV screen, effectively cutting out the sound, splintering the glass front as the pixels flicker to a brilliant rainbow of blocky color and static before going black.

 

The room is quiet save for Tony’s breathing that is starting to become more shallow, picking up in speed.

 

“We need to deal with this immediately,” Hill says with cold reserve, quickly recovering from the sudden bout of destruction. His phone rings on the table and she’s quick to scoop it up and end the call. “There’s no getting around the story now, but we may be able to salvage things.”

 

“We need to start with the identity of the man in the photos,” Coulson continues.

 

“No,” Tony rasps, sinking down onto the floor, drawing his knees close to his body. “I’m not gonna fucking _out_ somebody.”

 

“We don’t need to disclose his identity to the public,” he clarifies. “But if we’re going to help defuse this bomb, Hill and I need to know.”

 

“Defusing the bomb is a bit of a poor analogy,” she points out with a sigh. “At this point, the bomb has exploded, the building has collapsed, and we need to drag you out of the rubble. But Coulson is right, we can better help you if we know who he is and if we know whether or not we need to pay him off to keep him quiet or help him not be discovered.”

 

It’s getting harder to breathe. Tony’s vision is starting to black out around the edges, his hands in front of his face blurring. The photos keep flashing in his mind, even after he squeezes his eyes shut. The moment that once made his heart race is coming back to do so again, now for all the wrong reasons. His chest hurts, lungs expanding painfully against his rib cage every time he thinks about Steve’s face. How could he be so stupid? So reckless? He’s ruined this. He’s ruined everything.

 

“—Stark? Stark? Coulson, I don’t think he’s breathing—”

 

“Can you hear us? Tony, hey, look up, kid.”

 

“His inhaler— Potts mentioned he has one. Check the desk—”

 

“I’m looking, I’m looking! I can’t find it—”

 

“Then go upstairs! Check the dresser! Stark— Tony? Tony, listen to me, you need to tell me where your inhaler is— Hey, Tony, come on I need you to breathe. Potts told me about this, but I need you to tell me where—”

 

“Pepper?” Tony mumbles numbly, still gasping for air. He feels like he’s drowning, pinpricks of heat raking across his skin. His eyes are open but he can’t see anything but blackness and shifting bursts of light. “Call— Call, Pepper—” he heaves, feeling like he might vomit at any moment.

 

He isn’t sure how much time passes, he feels like his body is getting jostled around, he goes from laying on something hard to something soft. There’s something cold and metal and plastic pressed against his ear.

 

“ _Tony? Tony can you hear me?_ ” The familiar voice breaks through all the blood roaring in his ears. “ _Tony, I’m right here— I’m at the airport buying my ticket as we speak, I need you to stay with me. Can you hear me? Say something, Tony._ ”

 

Her voice is calming. A life preserver tossed to him in the middle of a hurricane on the sea. He grasps at it with weak fingers. “Uh… Huh…”

 

“ _Good, good. I’m going to be there as soon as I can, okay? I’m with you, I’m right here. Just keep breathing okay? Remember what we talked about? Breathe in, count to three, breathe out. Tap your chest to count, remember?_ ”

 

He feels two fingers on the center of his chest, numbly tapping three times. _Inhale. One, two— Can’t breathe, can’t breathe— Try again— One— One, two— One, two, three— Exhale. Inhale. Tap, tap, tap. Exhale._ The fingers are his own, he realizes after a few cycles of this, feeling returning to his fingertips. _Inhale. Tap, tap, tap, Exhale._

 

“I found it!” Feet pounding back down the stairs.

 

“ _You’re doing great, Tony, keep on doing that. I’m going to be there soon, I promise. I’m so sorry, Tony. I love you, you’re doing great. Keep breathing, one, two, three, okay?_ ”

 

He’s being shifted again, hands tilting his head up and away from his knees. “Keep breathing like that, Tony, ready? We’ve got your inhaler, take another deep breath—”

 

He feels something cold against his lips. He seals them around the opening on faded instinct, taking a deep breath. He hears a hiss, coolness rushing into his throat and opening up the airway. He gasps and splutters on it, coughing before it’s pressed against his lips again. He can still hear Pepper, but she sounds more distant now.

 

_“—Let them help, Tony. Keep breathing, ready? Deep breaths, deep breaths. I’ll be there soon, honey, just hold on.”_

 

The aftershocks of a panic attack always leave Tony’s mind a little fuzzy. It’s been years since he’s had one— he almost forgot about the inhaler Pepper insists he keep with him just in case it happens again. He remembers Steve finding it once, reminiscing on when he had one because of the terrible asthma attacks he suffered from as a child. Tony had brushed it off like he dealt with the same thing— The air was worse in some overseas countries, so he had been given one by doctors whenever he traveled. He was too embarrassed to tell him the truth. Howard had always called his little “episodes” a cry for attention from a weak-minded little boy. He scoffed at the fact Maria entertained their son with the idea that he couldn't just buck up and be more of a man when anxiety-inducing situations piled up around him, separating him from the rest of reality.

 

The time that passes over the next day is a blur. Tony recovers in the privacy of his home, all the reporters eventually shooed away by law enforcement. Coulson and Hill make themselves at home, Pepper showing up later that evening. He lets her hold him for god knows how long, curling up on the couch like a lost child with his head in her lap, letting her fingers card gently through his hair. He tunes out the discussion of what comes next around him, hearing words like “press conference” and “damage control” thrown around.

 

He moves through the next day like molasses, Pepper staying the night and helping him get dressed the next morning. He puts on a nice suit, lets her clean him up and comb his hair, shave away any stubble to give him that innocent, boyish charm that everyone fawns over. She ushers him out to the car, keeping his face down and away from the reporters that have undeterredly returned after being shooed off by police the day before.

 

He’s transported to a green room somewhere, staring blankly at his uneaten breakfast Pepper has dropped off for him. _Cheeseburgers as greasy as they come, your favorite._ He has no appetite. Coulson and Maria arrive, Pierce is there too. He stands angrily in the corner of the room, a frown of disapproval on his face. He stays silent in the corner and Coulson hands over Tony’s pre-written statement.

 

He numbly stares down at the words typed out for them, echoing them back to Coulson in a monotone. The man sighs. “Tony… You have to at least try. We need this to be believable, remember?” He places a hand on his shoulder, lowering his voice slightly. “There are people who love and support you. Don’t forget that. We just need you to sell the lie for right now.”

 

Tony glances up at him. He looks sincere when he says it, Maria a sympathetic partner beside him, nodding her sentiment. “Aren’t you curious?” He asks, both of them exchanging confused glances. Tony looks down again. “Neither of you have asked me if it’s true or not.”

 

The room is silent. The past 24 hours have been such a frenzy, his managers immediately working towards a viable cover story and making sure that Tony was emotionally recovering from the shock that they hadn’t even shown an inch of concern as to the claims being made. They're just here to dispute them, not judge. Maria opens her mouth to say as such, Pierce’s voice cutting in sharply from the corner. “Be careful what you say next, Stark,” he warns gravely. Tony looks up to match his disgusted glare. “Do you know the policy the military has about homosexuals who serve?”

 

Tony feels an uncomfortable chill go down his spine. Shame and anger twist inside of him, hating the look on Pierce’s face like Tony is some abomination that should be cowering in front of him. “I’m familiar, sir,” he answers coldly, refusing to let the hateful rhetoric leave his tongue.

 

“Good. Keep it in mind.”

 

With that, he leaves the room. Pepper immediately wraps her arms around him, and it almost makes him break down. Almost.

 

_It’s time to be strong. Take one piece of advice from your lousy, no-good, fuckhead of a father and have a Backbone of Iron right now._

 

Tony takes a deep breath and stares back down at the cards in his hands. He reads them again, and again, and again. Takes notes from all three of them on his tone, when the right times to pause is. He’s not supposed to take any live questions, just read his statement and walk off. They adjust a couple of words here and there, and before he knows it, he’s stepping out onto the stage.

 

The room is packed full of reporters, overflowing from the seats to sitting on the floor in the main aisle and standing near the back of the room. People immediately start to stand and throw out questions, cameras snapping feverishly as he steps up to the podium. He stares straight ahead, face a blank wall of indifference. He waits until Hill and Coulson quiet the crowd, stepping back to stand behind Tony alongside Pierce, and now, Carol too.

 

He waits another few moments before speaking, making sure the room is utterly silent, waiting for him to speak. His eyes flicker down to the cards in his hands. “Recently, photos of me have surfaced to the public. Photos that depict—” Fuck. He swallows down the lump in his throat, trying to play it off as a thoughtful pause. “A deviant act. What the photos didn’t provide was context. I am not allowed to disclose the identity of the other man in the photos, and we will not be discussing him today.” His hands tremble slightly as he flips to the next card, something heavy settling in his stomach. “It’s no secret that I enjoy to drink, and at the time of the photos I was not in my right mind and under the influence of alcohol. This is a terrible addiction that I have been dealing with in private for some time now, and unfortunately, I was caught in a very unfortunate lapse of judgement with a stranger. I am not, and never have been, attracted to the same sex in any way, shape, or form—”

 

“Do you really expect us to believe that?” a voice shouts from the crowd. Tony’s reserve breaks, his eyes flickering up to see a blonde woman standing up in the aisle, heads turning to look at her. She seems familiar, but he can’t place from where. “Players from your previous teams have come out with stories of your suspicious, queer behavior.”

 

 _She’s trying to bait you, don’t go for it_ , Tony thinks, brow knitting together as he stares down at the cards yet again. “I cannot comment on baseless accusations that have been about me,” he parrots the response robotically.

 

“One might argue that they aren’t baseless at all since they’re coming from the people who know you best—”

 

Coulson steps forward. “I’ll remind you all that questions are not permitted at this time. Security, please escort Miss Everhart from the room as she has broken the agreed protocol.”

 

“I think you owe us the truth after _years_ of lying!” Everhart yells out as she’s ushered from the room.

 

“The truth is…” Tony stares down at the flimsy yellow notecard in his hands, the paper crinkling at the edges as he subconsciously clenches it tighter. He’s hidden this part of him away for so long. He had to shoot down Hill and Coulson’s attempts at trying to pin this on the supposed “mystery man”. That he was some manipulative, scorned queer that attempted to take advantage of him, or blackmail him with staged photos that ended up leaking to the public. He can’t stand the idea of Steve thinking that Tony would use him as a scapegoat, even if the world never finds out it’s him. The idea repulses him. He has to protect the man he loves, which means lying to the world about what they’ve seen. Play this off as nothing more than a horrible, disgusting lie the media has attempted to spin to ruin his career. Confirm that he’s straight, as if his sexuality should have anything to do with whether he has the ability, or should be _allowed_ to play baseball. As if he deserves any of the atrocious and hateful things that will be constantly hurled at him, and individuals like him have had to face for years. As if he should feel inferior to anyone else because he’s in love with a man, and be forced to hide that part of him away for the rest of his life, until he eventually implodes on himself. He’ll resent not saying something sooner, not using his position to speak out about what a true injustice these false assumptions are.

 

 _Stick to the cards_ , Coulson’s voice echoes in his head.

 

Tony takes a deep breath and lifts his gaze, flipping the cards face down onto the podium as he stares directly into the camera with the blinking red light.

 

“...I’m gay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch, so to speak! Once again, this chapter was meant to be around 20k and really got away from me, haha. You know I had to end it on a cliff hanger. One more chapter, and then an epilogue to wrap it all up. It's sad to know I'm almost finished, but this has been one of my fave chapters to write!!
> 
> Thank you for sharing and commenting as always! It really helps motivate me to keep writing. I'm glad you guys are loving the fic as much as I do <3


	7. Force Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains slightly graphic description of injury and violence. I've notated these brief sections with ***, if reading it would make you uncomfortable and you would rather skip over it.

November, 1994 

 

Tired eyes stare out over the cliff face of a small, rural town set between Provincetown and Wellfleet of Cape Cod. The water of the bay can be heard down below, a gentle wash of tide lapping at the desolate shore. Pale light begins to color at the edge of the horizon, the place where the water meets the sky blurred into a smooth gradient from the atmospheric fog settling over the cape. Seagulls are honking in the distance, their v-shaped silhouettes gliding through the pre-dawn haze, seemingly as restless as Tony in the early hours of the day.

 

Their flight into Massachusetts landed just a few hours ago, but he couldn’t fall back asleep after the drive out to the outer cape. Steve was fast asleep the moment he hit the mattress of the four-poster bed, Tony only managing to rest for an hour or two before he quietly slipped out of the master bedroom and onto the back porch overlooking the bluffs beyond while wrapped in a warm blanket. It’s pitch dark out, the moon barely a sliver in the sky. Tony has been holed up in overpopulated cities for so long that he almost forgot what it was like to look up at a dark velvet sky and see it dotted with countless stars.

 

Of all the vacation homes in the Stark’s name, their Truro cottage only comes second to the villa in Italy. It took about twenty years for Tony to fully appreciate the quaint little home on the bluff. As a kid, he always preferred the vacation estate in Italy which is at least ten times the size, not including all the land used for the vineyard and horse stables. Growing up, this was the boring option. A little house in the middle of nowhere with a bland, deserted beach, and the nearest town too quaint for his childhood desire for excitement and stimuli. Now, it’s the perfect escape from the constant barrage of animosity he’s been experiencing the past two months.

 

The media’s still feasting on the smörgåsbord that is Tony’s surprise coming out at the press conference that was supposed to be deflecting his so-called _illicit_ behavior. Pierce had nearly ripped him to shreds in the green room afterwards, Hill and Coulson clearly upset but too shocked to berate him much. Pepper had been the only one on his side through it all, torn between telling Tony she was proud of him but worried for his well-being and timing of the announcement.

 

Because they’re based in such a politically charged area, naturally, home fans and Tony’s own neighborhood all have _very_ strong opinions of him now. Some offer their quiet support— a couple of townhomes on his street now flying pride flags from their porches, others just being more friendly when he passes by them on his morning bike ride. Those on the opposite end of the spectrum, however, are anything but quiet on their feelings for the matter.

 

Protesters have been lined up outside of the stadium on more than one occasion, having to be shooed away by the police to take up their offense off of their property. Tony sees variations of it both at home and away games, hateful “fans” posted up across the street to hurl homophobic slurs and wave their disgusting signs. He’s had things thrown at him in public, cars driving by to call him a fag out of their windows, found his own merchandise burned or destroyed and left in his yard. It’s nothing Tony hasn’t been preparing for, and at the end of the day, it doesn’t affect him in the slightest. While before he had endured plenty of hatred from the sports community for other reasons, it’s never quite _offended_ people to this degree. A part of him that wasn’t a choice, his attraction to men, upsets people more than when he purposely went out of his way to undermine hard work and dedication to the sport they held so dear.

 

As far as the Knights go, they seem to fall on one side or the other. Pierce has made his disapproval known, but Carol called a team meeting the day after the press conference that any mistreatment of Tony because of his sexual orientation would result in immediate play suspension. He feels a bit like the teacher’s pet because of it, but it does deter any players who already disliked him to not take their hate any further. Most of his teammates actually do offer words of solidarity, a few “my uncle/cousin/friend-of-a-friend is gay”s and other attempts to connect to him. Sam makes it clear to him that if anyone gives him a hard time about it to let him know, and Tiberius’ attitude doesn’t change in the slightest. After a few weeks, it became a non-topic as far as his team was concerned. Carol continues to put him in games despite all the calls for him to be dropped from the team, and he continues to be one of the brightest shining stars of the MLB. The satisfaction in knowing that he’s proving the world wrong two-folded is enough to keep him going.

 

The Milky Way and twinkling dots begin to fade as the sky lightens up, the sun not yet peeking up over the horizon. Tony hears some movement inside the old beach house. Some tinkling in the kitchen. Steve finding the bottle of rum he had cracked open in the middle of the night and drained half of, not bothering to hide the evidence. He can hear the said bottle being put away, the glass rinsed out in the sink. Some more shifting about. Tony called ahead of time to have the fridge and pantry stocked with a few essentials from town. Even on vacation Steve insists on waking up at the ass crack of dawn to make breakfast where Tony would have rolled over and gone back to sleep (if he had stayed in bed in the first place.)

 

Several minutes later, the sliding door opens up and Tony turns to see Steve come out not with a tray of fresh breakfast foods for him, but a tall glass filled with a red liquid, only missing the celery garnish. “I did the best I could,” Steve admits, reading Tony’s thoughts as he hands him the Bloody Mary. “Figured you might want this.”

 

He stares at the drink, surprised by Steve’s forethought. He isn’t drunk by any means from the rum he treated himself to a couple of hours ago, but if he is unfortunate enough to experience a hangover in the middle of the day because of it, this will certainly take the edge off. “Thanks,” he mumbles against the rim of the glass as he takes a few long drinks.

 

Steve sinks down into a chair next to him, reaching out to just place a hand on Tony’s knee, rubbing it gently with his thumb. “Have you been out here all night?” His eyes are still bogged down with sleep, blonde hair messy and sticking up in the back.

 

Tony just shrugs, looking away from him to stare out at the grey waters lapping at the dark sand down below. “Couldn’t sleep.” He tightens the blanket around his form, tucking his legs closer to his chest.

 

Steve scoots his chair closer, leaning through the space separating them to press a kiss to his temple. His lips are warm and Tony can’t help but tilt his head closer, following the gravitational pull the man always has on him. “What are you thinking?” Steve murmurs against his hairline, reaching out to clasp his cold fingers between his hands.

 

“I think,” Tony takes a sip of the Bloody Mary. “I think a morning run sounds good right about now.”

 

Steve flashes a look of concern, leaning over to press the back of his hand against Tony’s forehead and cheeks. He’s sure they’re a bit clammy by now, sitting out in the early morning cold, salty mist and morning dew vapors clinging to his skin. “Are you sick? Did you hit your head? Who are you and what have you done to my Tony?”

 

He feels his chilled body warm to the sound of _my Tony_. Playfully, he pushes Steve’s hand away and gets to his feet. “I’m fine. It’s a nice morning for a jog is all.”

 

Steve still looks suspicious that he’s been body-snatched by something in the night. “I think Ty is rubbing off on you.”

 

Tony scoffs, even though he’s probably right. “Nonsense. You’re the only one I let rub off on me.”

 

He earns something between a laugh and a snort as Steve follows him back inside. They change into lightweight running gear and Tony takes Steve on a loop around the bluffs of the cape to give him a tour of the path-less-traveled by tourists. It’s not the most elegant course, plenty of hilly slopes and fields beset by knee-height grass. It’s a rolled ankle waiting to happen, but luckily neither of them get hurt when breaking away from the sand-dirt path through the moor. Their journey takes them through fields overrun with clusters of wildflowers, barren trees to their right and the cliff face leading down to the beaches below to their left. They keep up a steady pace, taking a winding path to travel at least a few miles away from Tony’s chalet, eventually taking a break atop a wide berm that stretches out over an idyllic, pastoral view, houses scarcely dotted across the landscape.

 

They lay on their backs, reclined on the natural slope of earth to stare up at the pale dawn sky, thin wispy clouds lazily drifting along overhead. The occasional gust of wind coming up from the cape below feels good against his sweat-slicked skin, the two of them enjoying the silence as they lay side by side, hands barely touching just to assure the other one that they are still here.

 

Tony points out Edward Hopper’s house, an unassuming little cottage nestled in the brush, nothing more than an obscured historical landmark that the occasional tourist parks on the side of the winding road for, scaling the hills to see for themselves and possibly grab a snapshot of. He echoes his mother’s knowledge of the famous painter who built the home himself and came out to the cape year after year, spending forty of his eighty-four Summers out in Truro to paint the sun-hazed rolling landscapes. Tony wishes he could be as descriptive and well-knowledged as her as he recounts the picturesque depiction of the bluffs, the sand dunes, the cliff faces and lighthouses, many of which once hung in the Stark mansion but now find homes in museums around the world. Maria always preferred having Hopper’s paintings in Malibu rather than their actual Truro beachfront, as a subtle reminder to return to the place where tedious life blurs into a natural reverie.

 

“It’s beautiful here,” Steve agrees softly, running his thumb gently along the smooth inside of Tony’s wrist. “I can see where his inspiration came from. I could imagine wanting to live here forever.”

 

Tony smiles, rolling onto his side to prop himself on his elbow and look down at Steve. He turns his longing gaze from the landscape back to Tony, that shy smile gracing his lips. “Maybe swap out that dream for the house upstate for a house on the cape. And hey, this one’s already ours. We can both just retire and move out here. You sketching the landscapes, me tinkering away, walks on the beach, driving through the hills with the top down, buying a boat and learning to sail… Regular, rural, domestic bliss.” Tony’s joking of course, but a part of him wants the future he’s outlining to be less of a punch line pipe dream and something… tangible.

 

Steve reaches up and brushes a limp lock of hair back off of Tony’s forehead. “I would love that, honestly. Would you?”

 

Tony collapses back onto the grass, closing his eyes. “Probably not,” he admits. “It’s too quiet. I would miss the city too much.”

 

He hears Steve’s head shift against the grass in a nod. “In a weird way, I think I would too. As much as I don’t like some aspects of it, New York is all I’ve ever known.”

 

Tony refrains from saying something horrifically cheesy like _wherever you are feels like home to me_ , even if it feels true in the moment. They make no motion to get up, even after both of them have caught their breath. Tony basks in the lingering feeling of togetherness, listening to the steady crest and fall of Steve’s breathing next to him intermingle with the wind rustling the tall grass in the fields below. He opens his eyes as the quiet stretches on, rolling over again until he’s on top of Steve. The man grunts slightly underneath him, blinking his eyes open slowly as if he had started to doze off.

 

They kiss in the grass, unencumbered by their reputation and their lives back in their respective cities as the sun creeps over the horizon, the fog retreating as it raises higher in the sky.

 

Eventually, they untangle from one another and get back to their feet, blades of grass still clinging to their backs. They return home at a leisurely pace, framed by the pinks and oranges of the sunrise as they go. By the time they make it home, Tony’s exhaustion catches up with him. Steve somehow convinces him to rinse off in the shower, washing away sweat and dirt and pollen before letting him slog back into bed, not even bothering to dry off before collapsing face down on top of the sheets, naked save for the towel wrapped around his waist.

 

He wakes up a few hours later with the comforter damp underneath him. The cottage is warm, Steve most likely turning up the heat to protect Tony from pneumonia. The master bedroom door is open, the thick smell of maple and sausage filtering in from the kitchen. He dresses himself in a comfortable, worn-in pair of light wash jeans and a cream sweater, pulling on some woolen socks before letting his growling stomach lead the way.

 

Steve is sitting at the island in the middle of the large kitchen reading a book, the plate in front of him empty. There’s one waiting for Tony in the space next to him, sausage and biscuits with sliced fruit on the side. He doesn’t bother to heat it up in the microwave, immediately digging into the cold meal and clearing the plate in less than a few minutes.

 

“How does your knee feel?” Tony asks after his hunger is sated, now able to properly think straight again.

 

Steve rubs it absentmindedly, not looking up from his book. “It’s fine. I think that run this morning did it some good, but I’ll need to lay off it for the rest of the day to be sure.”

 

Steve hasn’t had an easy past season either. He’s been back at physical therapy twice a week to make sure his knee is still functioning properly, and has barely seen any league play this season. Despite this, the Avengers are coming off of another Championship game win, this time not even going up against their long time rivals of the Irons. It’s almost poetic how after Tony had moved on, the PCL team seemed to lose steam, coming out at the middle of the season for the first time in a while. Howard was probably rolling in his grave, much to Tony’s own satisfaction. The Knights were just shy of going to the World Series this year, which meant Tony was able to go back to New York during the post-season and properly celebrate with his old team.

 

Now, both of them are enjoying a long overdue vacation. Since his spontaneous coming out, they’ve been a lot more careful about their relationship. The visits dwindled to Very Rarely, and they stopped going out in public altogether. In the past, being spotted by fans or even the media was nothing newsworthy, just a couple of old friends out for a lunch or dinner before meeting up with more teammates at the pub afterwards. Now, Tony refuses to let anyone make the connection that Steve was his mystery lover from the photos who was never able to be identified. Even if the sneaky pap had been able to grab the license plate, Steve was clever enough to cover his tracks at the rental place with a fake name. There has been plenty of speculation around the identity of the man in the photos, but luckily not even the biggest conspirators against Tony have drawn the conclusion that it could be his former Captain. Tony likes to think it’s because Steve portrays himself as so _painfully_ straight that no one would even give him a second thought.

 

Some days are nicer than others during the month-long getaway in Truro. On the days they’re bombarded with blustering Fall winds, they stay inside, reading to each other, sketching, playing chess, watching movies. When the cloud cover dwindles and allows the sun to shine down on the cape, they go for walks along the bluffs, Steve bringing his camera to take pictures. While he snaps plenty of shots of just the landscapes, he insists Tony get in some of them as well. He ends up taking what have to be hundreds of photos of Tony alone, but he’s always loved the camera, so he can’t complain.

 

On the warmest days they go down to the beach. The water is far too cold to actually get in, but it’s nice to lay out on a towel and talk with each other, trading childhood stories and talks of the future. Tony wants to cling to every moment as long as he can, because he knows as soon as they return home, they won’t have an opportunity like this again for a long, long time.

 

They drive to the other towns along the Outer Cape, Tony giving Steve a tour of his old stomping grounds. The area isn’t quite as popular outside of the Summer months, and they’ve come before the Thanksgiving rush of families who come back to their holiday homes. He has multiple seafood restaurants in Provincetown he happily takes Steve to, and after dinner they walk down the street, hand-in-hand.

 

“Are you sure this is okay?” Steve asks him quietly, clearly not over the trauma of the last time this happened. They’re not dressed for espionage today, and though the town isn’t populated, there are still people to pass to pass in view of by storefronts and houses.

 

Tony gives an encouraging squeeze. “All the locals here know me and my family,” he pauses to wave at little old Mary sitting on her porch knitting, who gives a friendly wave and a bright smile. “No one’s going to yell at us or call the paparazzi. We’re safe here,” he promises. He’s introduced Steve as “his friend” a few times to the store clerks and restaurant in town who he’s all known since childhood. Everyone’s been nothing but warm and welcoming, not even batting an eyelash.

 

“I didn’t know it could be like that anywhere,” Steve admits, returning the squeeze as they walk down the sidewalk with to-go hot chocolates in hand.

 

Tony shrugs. “Not everyone is going to be accepting I’m sure, but it helps that the owners of the main boating club here are partners who have been together since before I was born,” he chuckles. “Lukas and Marty. Nicest guys in the world. I’m pretty sure even the most intolerant dickheads would succumb to their charms.”

 

They walk down to some nearby docks, finding a bench to sit on to watch the sunset. The water laps gently against the posts below them, a few birds hopping along and cocking their heads in interest at Steve and Tony before flitting away when they realize there’s no crumbs to be had here. Tony presses himself in close to Steve, the man looping an arm around his shoulders to keep him close and warm. He clasps Steve free hand between both of his, closing his eyes to just enjoy the peace and quiet.

 

“Can we please talk about it?” Steve asks softly.

 

Tony sighs deeply through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut tighter as if he can wish hard enough and this conversation will stop coming up. “No, Steve,” he mutters tiredly. “I told you this discussion was closed.”

 

“Well I want to reopen it,” Steve insists, shifting a little to fix his stare on Tony who reluctantly opens his eyes. “Tony, I want to come out too.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Tony insists. They’ve had this argument dozens of times, in dozens of different ways over the past couple of months. “My life has been hell since I did it and I’m not dragging you down with me.”

 

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” Steve insists. “I want to be there with you. I hate this feeling that you’re dealing with this all by yourself. It’s not _fair_.”

 

“I don’t know how you’ve gone almost forty years without that realization, but it’s not really news to the rest of us that life isn’t _fair_ ,” Tony sneers.

 

Steve actually glares at him. “Stop that. You know I hate it when you treat me like I’m just some naive idiot to this stuff. You throw yourself at everything half-cocked and fall back on the excuse that you’re young and dumb, so you don’t get to act like the wise one when it comes to our relationship.”

 

“But I am!” Tony says, exasperated. “I’m sorry, Steve. You know I don’t mean it like you’re stupid. But I do have more experience than this than you do. Both with public perception, and with harboring this fucking secret. You didn’t even realize you were gay until we met— and trust me, I’m glad you did, it’s been great for me— but just trust that I know what’s best for this situation, and you coming out and us exposing our relationship will tank _both_ of our careers— our _lives_. Besides,” he clasps Steve’s hand tighter. “I’m not alone. I have you to support me and I don’t need or _want_ that in the public spotlight.”

 

“But I _do_. I don’t give a damn what anyone else has to say. You’ve had to deal with this on your own for so long, Tony. I wouldn’t feel right not being right there to help take off some of that pressure.”

 

The sentiment is sweet, but misguided. Tony shakes his head. “You don’t get it. You painting a target on yourself isn’t going to take the attention away from me, it’s just going to bring it down that much harder. Think about it, Steve. People already had reason enough to dislike me. Now, they feel like they can validate their hatred and fear because I was never the ideal figure for them. Just because you’re not in the Majors anymore and you know your team would support you unconditionally doesn’t mean you coming out would be all hunky-dory. You’re the baseball world’s _golden boy_ , a wholesome, model player! Who do you think they’re going to blame for corrupting that perfect man?”

 

Steve’s expression falls. “I… Maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll see that anyone can be a good person, regardless of who they love.”

 

It breaks Tony’s heart that Steve still wants to give people the benefit of the doubt. He’s so dangerously optimistic sometimes that it hurts. “You were the one who pushed me to keep my career going and in tact. I’m trying to do the same here by telling you _no_.”

 

“I can’t just sit by and watch everyone turn against you,” he states with finality, jaw clenching. “I don’t care if it ruins my career.”

 

“I’m not going to let you do that!”

 

“Well maybe I’m not asking permission,” Steve snaps.

 

They stare at each other tensely for a few moments, but Steve is the first to bow out. Tony is still glaring at him as he cups his face and leans in to kiss him. Tony turns his face away, Steve’s nose rubbing gently against his cheek. He attempts to coax Tony back into a kiss, but he’s steadfast in his stubbornness, letting Steve kiss along his jaw and mutter his. “I love you”s against his ear. He does his best to stand his ground, but his obstinance no match when Steve pries his scarf away from his neck and presses his warm lips there. Tony feels his pulse quicken beneath his mouth, a soft sigh escaping him as he tilts his head back.

 

“Tony?”

 

What begins as an adolescent embarrassment of being caught necking your boyfriend by a neighbor quickly morphs into genuine shock and alarm. Tony’s bashful laugh dies in his throat as he pulls his face away from Steve, the color draining from his face when he realizes the female voice belongs to his coach.

 

“Carol!” He practically squeaks in surprise. The three of them all stare at each other, unmoving and wide-eyed for a moment. Too late, Tony quickly rips his hands away from Steve and scoots a good foot down on the bench to separate them, as futile as the action is. There’s absolutely no hiding the intimacy they shared in, and he doesn’t even know how long Carol’s been standing there. Tony stands just because his body isn’t sure if it can remain seating after such a scare. “Wh-What are you doing here?”

 

She blinks, gaze flickering between the two of them. She doesn’t look quite as dismayed as the two of them, her eyebrows raised in what seems like curiosity. “My parents… I come out to visit them in Boston during the break and they rent a house out here for a couple weeks. My dad and I like to do a little fishing together when I’m home,” she gestures over a ways to where there’s an older man tying a little fishing boat by the docks. He gives a friendly tip of the hat to them before going back to his business, Tony just noticing the tackle box tucked under one of Carol’s arms. She looks imploringly to Tony, an awkward smile on her face. “What are you doing out here?”

 

He runs a hand awkwardly through his hair, eyes darting over to see Steve awkwardly staring at a fixed point near the woman’s feet, the back of his neck bright red. “Uh, same, I guess. I mean— not fishing— I don’t know how to fish. Just… a little vacation. My family owns a house in Truro.”

 

She nods with a pleasant smile before clearing her throat and tipping her head towards Steve. “Well, don’t be rude. Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

 

Tony can’t tell if she’s fucking with him or not. “Er— Right, sorry. Carol, this is Steve. Steve, Carol.”

 

Steve gathers himself enough to stand and shake her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Coach Danvers. Tony’s had nothing but good things to say about you.”

 

“Carol is fine. And he better,” she throws a wink Tony’s way. “It’s nice to finally meet you too. Nick speaks very highly of you as well. Congrats on your Championship win this season, by the way.”

 

Tony scowls, forgetting that Fury is so buddy-buddy with his coach and seemingly everyone else in Tony’s life. “Thank you. The Knights had an incredible season as well,” Steve says graciously. “I’ve noticed Tony make some huge improvements which is all thanks to you, I’m sure.”

 

“Damn straight. But he might have just a little to do with that,” she says, giving Tony a friendly nudge with her elbow. She glances over her shoulder to where her father is gathering their things on the dock. “I better help Dad load up the truck before he throws out his back trying to do it all by himself.” She turns back to Tony, a pensive look on her face. “You said you’re out in Truro? Would you like to come back up here tomorrow morning and meet me for a run?”

 

“Never too early to start training, huh?” Tony teases.

 

“Yeah, something like that.” She hums thoughtfully, a spark in her eye. Tony hates that spark. That spark means Carol is scheming, which won’t end well for him. “It was nice running into you two. Nice to meet you, Steve,” she gives a little wave and ruffles Tony’s hair before hurrying back down the dock to help her dad unload the boat, throwing over her shoulder. “And I’ll see you tomorrow at seven, a.m., bright and early, Tone!”

 

Tony and Steve both stare after her before looking at each other. “Well… that happened,” Tony says.

 

Steve just nods and takes Tony’s hand again to walk back to the car. “She didn’t seem… bothered?”

 

“Yeah… Guess not.”

 

Carol is the type of woman to not hide how she truly feels about much of anything. She’s gone to such great lengths to make sure Tony feels safe since his coming out that it would be hard to imagine she was only doing it out of professional courtesy to her player. Pierce certainly hasn’t hidden his opinion on the matter.

 

Despite that, he’s still nervous early the next morning as he kisses a still-sleeping Steve on the forehead goodbye before driving back up to Provincetown to meet her for their run. They didn’t agree on an exact meeting point, but Tony assumes she meant back at the docks. The town is quiet and desolate this early, Tony spotting her lone figure sitting on the same bench she had run into them at the day before.

 

There’s not much room for conversation as they set off on their trek, Carol taking him on a winding path through the town, down to the beaches, back up into the hills and through the woods before doubling back. It’s nothing like the leisurely jog he and Steve had gone on, Carol constantly snapping at him to pick up the pace and tighten up his form.

 

After about seven miles with breaks in between, they finally come to a stop at Carol’s cabin. Her parents are just now getting up for the day and insist Tony stays for a hearty breakfast. The Danvers are kind and welcoming, surprising Tony when they bring up how shameful it is that people are reacting so negatively to his coming out. On basic instinct, Tony just assumes that 90% of the older generation are the ones who spearhead the hateful movement against queer communities. Carol cordially shifts the topic away from that when Tony’s discomfort is clear, making a face at him from across the table. _Parents. So embarrassing, right?_ It’s obvious they dote on their daughter and are proud of her accomplishments and the obstacles she’s overcome thus far, but are fast and loose with teasing and quick-witted jibes at her expense. _So this is what a functional family looks like._

 

“Come on, let’s have a beer on the porch,” Carol says after they finish clearing the plates.

 

“Breaking the alcohol ban?” Tony asks in surprise, gratefully accepting the bottle from her.

 

She gives a half-shrug, tucking a lock of blonde hair that had escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. “We’re technically on break. And, please, like I don’t know you break it all the time.”

 

“I plead the fifth,” Tony says, following her out onto the back deck. The little cabin is tucked away near the tree line inland rather than perched as a cliff facing waterfront like his own cottage. He sits on the porch swing with Carol, gently rocking them back and forth with his foot occasionally grazing the ground.

 

“So,” she takes a sip of her beer. “How long have you and Steve been together?”

 

Tony stares up at the barren tree branches arching overhead, blowing slightly in the wind. “Two years,” he answers, only surprised by how long it took Carol to bring it up. There’s no point in hiding it or trying to convince her she’s got it all wrong. Anyone with two eyes would know the truth from a single glance with the way they’ve been free to _be_ with each other while staying here.

 

She nods thoughtfully. “My partner and I just had our anniversary last month. I’ve been with her for five.”

 

He looks at her in surprise. “You’re…”

 

“Yup,” she pops her lips on the P, flashing Tony a dry smile.

 

Her fierce insistence on protecting Tony’s well-being now makes a lot more sense. “Does anyone else know?”

 

“Not really,” she shrugs. “A couple of close friends. My family, of course. They’re all very supportive as they made clear over breakfast,” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “Mostly people outside of the baseball world. I have a hard enough time as just a woman, I’d rather not throw _lesbian_ into the mix as well. Might give all the whiny male fans validation to calling me a dyke and god knows what else whenever our team loses and it’s suddenly all my fault.”

 

Tony winces. His most positive coaching experiences thus far have both come from women, but it’s not like the bigoted fans were going to recognize that anytime soon. No matter how intelligent, strong, charismatic, and successful both Carol and Natasha are, they have to work ten times as hard to be recognized than any of the male coaches in the leagues.

 

Impulsively, he reaches out to pull her into a hug. He expects her to humor him for a moment before playfully shoving him off like Natasha would, but she actually returns it, rubbing his back.

 

“It’s going to be okay, Tony. You’re not alone in this. I know it’s been tough so far, but I promise it’ll get better. Keep powering through. Make them see that they’re wrong about you. About us.” She pulls away from him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “It was incredibly brave _and_ incredibly stupid what you did. And as much shit as you’re going to get for it… It’s going to help in the long run. Things are changing, even if it doesn’t feel that way. You should be proud to be at the front of that change.”

 

 _Is it worth it though?_ Tony wants to ask. He knows that it’s an impossible question for her to answer. He almost broaches the topic of his and Steve’s argument from when she ran into them the day before, but he knows he can’t run to everyone else when he’s having relationship problems to hope they have solutions for him. This is something he has to figure out on his own.

 

The house is empty when he returns to Truro, walking back out onto the porch with bare feet to find Steve down by the water with his sketch pad, laying out on a foldable lounger. His legs muscles are starting to ache as makes his way down the precarious stairs built into the cliff face.

 

Steve hears the soft, damp sand squishing underfoot as Tony approaches, turning to smile at him. “Morning. How was your run?”

 

Tony drops down onto his knees next to Steve’s chair. Steve’s sketchbook is filled with gesture lines shaping into the cliffs and hills, aimless but still purposeful. He’s captured it beautifully without any value or color, just breaking it down to their bare necessities.

 

“You can’t come out,” he says simply, turning his eyes back onto Steve’s face. He opens his mouth to argue, but Tony holds up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say, and I understand, but I don’t want you to. This will pass. It’s not worth both of us being miserable. I just have a gut feeling that it’s going to get so much worse if you come out too.” He reaches up to touch Steve’s face, cradling his cheek gently against his palm. “You sacrifice so much for me and everyone else. It’s not always your weight to bear, okay? Let me do this for you.”

 

Steve’s expression is crestfallen, all the anger immediately leaving his eyes. “Are you sure?”

 

Tony swallows. _No, of course I’m not sure. Who can be sure about anything?_ “Yes. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Trust me, okay?”

 

Steve closes his eyes, turns his head, and kisses the inside of Tony’s palm. “Okay. I trust you.”

  


October, 1996 

 

Tony is late.

 

It’s expected behavior at this point, but tonight his tardiness is making Steve’s stomach turn more than usual. Things have been tense between them lately— Well, for quite some time now. The last couple of years hasn’t been kind to their relationship, and it certainly hasn’t been kind to Tony either.

 

It’s been months since they’ve seen each other last. After their Cape Cod trip from two years ago, the off-season has been their only set-in-stone point of contact. Their already limited opportunities to visit each other soon slipped through the cracks to the point where they would go months without seeing one another in person. Flying to each other's places was getting harder to do in secret, and they eventually had to rule out Steve coming to D.C. at all unless they had a nearby away game as another reason for him to be there. It was too suspicious, whereas Tony had plenty of contacts in New York that he could be visiting, and they were just sure to never be spotted just the two of them, lest someone connect the dots. Meeting up on the road was too much effort, especially with Tony playing more and more, minus the time he spent benched as punishment for showing up to games drunk and/or hungover. They had to be overly cautious to the point of Tony booking private, discreet hotel rooms in New York just so he wouldn’t be spotted around Steve’s complex.

 

On top of that, Tony’s alcoholism has gotten far worse. What he played off as a leftover social habit from his party boy days, and just a bit of liquor here and there to take the edge off quickly snowballed out of control. The stress of the Major League coupled with all of the vitriol from fans, peers, and the media left him with only one coping mechanism to fall back on. A month ago, Steve along with the rest of the world watched Tony vomit on the pitcher’s mound in the middle of the game, not even having time to get off the field before passing out. Steve’s own game schedule was too busy to warrant a trip to D.C., but Carol called to inform him this was the fifth time Tony had to get his stomach pumped in the past year.

 

Most of their late night or early morning phone calls involved an inebriated Tony who did everything he could to play it off that he was sober. Steve could see right through the slightly slurred speech and nonsensical tangents he went off of, wishing he could be there to shake some sense into him. He continued to ask Sam to watch out for him, but there’s only so much the man could do. Tony doesn’t have people over and hardly leaves the apartment. The only person he regularly corresponds with outside of Carol would be Tiberius. Steve has never even met the guy, but something about him rubs him the wrong way. He doesn’t trust him to be the one to steer Tony in the right direction, even if they were childhood friends. Ty’s not like Bucky. Steve worries he may just be the opposite.

 

He’s just coming out of two weeks of rehab, something he’s been fighting tooth and nail against for the past year whenever it was brought up. With combined efforts of Carol, Steve, Pepper, Bruce, and Rhodey, they were eventually able to convince him to take a break and go through a detoxing for at least a week. Carol was the real heavy hitter there, the only one with any authority to threaten Tony with being dropped off the leading roster if he didn’t go. Every time there’s a period of Tony not playing, rumors get stirred up that he’s finally being kicked out of Major League play because of his _proclivities_. The assumptions always die back down after Tony returns to the field and continues to excel in whichever position he’s placed in, but Steve can’t imagine how exhausting it must be to feel the need to constantly outdo your best just to prove yourself to others.

 

Their last conversation was more or less an argument. Carol was giving Tony a few days to unwind and adjust after leaving the rehab center, and even though he’d bought his plane ticket a few days prior, Tony called Steve in a panic trying to bow out.

 

 _“We haven’t seen each other in_ months _, Tony.”_

 

_“I know, I know, I’m just— I don’t know if I can come. I’m feeling really anxious. I can’t get through this flight without a drink.”_

 

_“You don’t need that. It’s one and a half hours, you’ll be fine—”_

 

_“You don’t know what I need! I can’t do this, I should just stay here in D.C. You can come down here instead.”_

 

_“You know I want to, and I would if I could, but I can’t. Just come to New York. Everything will be okay. You need to be around people who love you.”_

 

_“I don’t want to come anymore.”_

 

_“Don’t you want to see me?”_

 

_“Y-Yeah, I do but… but… I don’t know. I’m all out of sorts. I need a drink.”_

 

_“You don’t. Do you have your inhaler?”_

 

 _“Yes,_ Mom _.”_

 

_“Good. Use it if you need to. I’ll talk to you as long you need, okay?”_

 

 _“I’m at the gate now. I’ll be fine. Even though I really_ don’t _want to come, Steve.”_

 

_“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I should come pick you up from the airport.”_

 

_“No, that’s way too suspicious. I’ll be fine, okay? I’ll just catch a cab and see you by nine.”_

 

_“Okay. I love—”_

 

_Click. Beep._

 

Nine o’clock passes by and there’s still no sign of Tony. By the time ten o’clock rolls around, Steve figures his flight got delayed. At ten thirty, he thinks that maybe the traffic is bad leaving the airport. When there’s still no call from him by eleven, Steve calls the airport. After an infuriatingly long time on hold, he’s told that the flight from D.C. had landed right on schedule. He tries Tony’s cell multiple times but there’s no answer. He even calls the house phone in D.C. on the off chance that maybe Tony didn’t come at all, but he only leave voicemails. At half past eleven, he starts to make calls elsewhere. Tony had promised he was going to come straight to Steve’s from the airport, but it wouldn’t be too unlike him to get sidetracked. He checks with Bruce, Rhodey, and Natasha, but no one’s seen or heard from Tony. He even calls Pepper to see if she has any ideas, but she says she hasn’t spoken with him in days.

 

Worst case scenarios start to eat away at his mind. He needs to do _something_ , but what can he do? He has no idea where Tony could be, and no real confirmation that he even boarded his flight in the first place. He needs Tony to walk through that door so they can laugh about the numerous panicked voicemails Steve left when all Tony had done was get delayed with lost luggage or cab troubles or media swarms. He isn’t sure how much longer he can sit in his apartment, driving himself mad with worry.

 

It’s almost midnight and Steve is just about to head out to blindly comb the streets for any sign of his boyfriend when his phone rings. He practically crushes the device in his hand from picking it up and slamming the answer button with such force. “Tony?”

 

“Hello, is this Mr. Steve Rogers?” Asks an unfamiliar female voice.

 

An augury of dread immediately settles over him, a chill striking through his entire body at the unsettling serenity in her tone. “Y-Yes,” he clears his throat in the hopes of stabilizing his shaking voice. “Who is this?”

 

“My name is Nurse Leyva. I’m calling from NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital on behalf of Tony Stark who was just admitted to our care. You are one of his two listed emergency contacts.”

 

Steve is already flying out the door as she speaks, practically jumping from one flight of stairs to the other without even bothering with the steps themselves, his knee crying out in protest. “Is he okay? What happened?”

 

“The doctors are examining him now to determine the full extent of his injuries. We’re not sure what the cause is yet, but it appears to be some kind of assault. He has suffered some head trauma as well as multiple contusions, broken bones possible internal...”

 

He doesn't hear the rest of the nurse’s words, everything drowned out by a white noise as he numbly makes his way through the parking garage. The only thing he can hear is his own labored breathing as he shakily gets into his car, practically snapping the door handle off in the process. “Presbyterian,” he echoes shakily, cutting off whatever the nurse had been saying. “That’s on— William Street, right? Right off the Brooklyn Bridge?”

 

“Yes sir, William and Beekman—”

 

“I’ll be there soon,” Steve hangs up the phone and tosses it into the passenger seat before peeling out of his garage. He suddenly understands Tony’s incessant need to drive at such a reckless, blinding pace all the time. It’s calming in a contradictory way, elevating his already panicked heart rate while focusing his energy at the same time. The traffic is lighter in some areas than it is others, Steve doing his best to weave his way through to get to Lower Manhattan. He slams his hand onto his horn impatiently more than a few times, for the first time contributing to all the needless noise pollution he’s been hearing his entire life. It doesn’t offer much in the way of catharsis, his little Pinto groaning in protest at all the sudden stop-and-go.

 

The ER waiting room is hectic and swamped with people even at such a late hour. He resists the urge to shove his way past the line of people in front of the main desk to ask Tony’s whereabouts and status, but manages to hold back and impatiently wait his turn until he can speak with a nurse.

 

“I’m here for Tony Stark,” he says immediately, already fumbling his ID out of his pocket. “My name’s Steve Rogers, I’m his emergency contact. Is he okay?”

 

She takes a quick glance at the ID before sliding it back to him, clicking away at her computer and scanning the screen. “It looks like they brought him in a little over an hour ago. He’s currently in surgery to correct internal bleeding. His injuries appear to be stabilized but he’s still under doctor’s observations to make sure his condition doesn’t get any worse.”

 

Steve heaves a sigh of relief, hands still nervously clutching at the edge of the counter. _He’s okay, he’s okay._ “Can I see him?”

 

“Not until he’s out of surgery, I’m afraid. You’re welcome to wait, I’ll have a nurse fetch you when he’s ready.”

 

Steve hesitates, not wanting to leave the counter just yet. “You said he’s stabilized. Is he going to be okay? Do you know what caused this? I was told on the phone it was an assault.”

 

She glances back over the files. “There’s nothing here from any police reports, but I imagine that will be filed and investigated afterwards. He was unconscious when they brought him in, and his injuries do appear to be caused by some kind of physical trauma. That’s all the info I have for you right now.”

 

He swallows and steps aside so the next person can be helped, rasping out a quiet thank you before taking his seat. He sits with his head in his hands, staring down between his feet. _Just breathe. He’s going to be fine. What happened to him? Who did this?_ Steve’s worst-case scenarios make another appearance in his mind and he’s instantly reminded of Tony’s bad feelings and nerves to come to New York.

 

A familiar voice with an English accent breaks through his spiraling thoughts. “Margaret Carter— Yes, is he alright?— What do you mean I can’t see him?”

 

Steve raises his head to see Peggy standing at the counter, looking just as wrecked as he probably did. It’s been a long time since he’s last had time to see Peggy, too long. He notices streaks of grey in her dark chocolate locks that are pulled away from her face in a hasty bun, her appearance not nearly as put together as Steve is so used to seeing her. She must’ve been woken up in the middle of the night because of this.

 

“Peggy,” he calls out to her, swiftly approaching the counter again. She turns to him in surprise, her eyes wide and tinged pink around the edges.

 

“Oh, Steve!” she exhales in relief, immediately wrapping her arms around him in a hug. She’s practically shaking in his arms and he doesn’t release her after she pulls out of the hug, leaving a steadying hand on her elbow. “They said he’s still in surgery— do you know what happened? How long have you been here?”

 

“No, I haven’t heard yet. I got here not too long ago,” he leads her over to a couch so she can sit down. Her hands are trembling and he can see rumpled tissues peeking out of her coat pockets. “His injuries look like it was from some kind of assault though.”

 

She shakes her head mournfully, digging out a tissue to quickly wipe at her watering eyes. “I was so worried something like this would happen,” she whispered, lower lip trembling.

 

“You think it had to do with…” Steve feels his throat tighten, a hotness prickling at his own eyes. His stomach drops again and he’s unable to voice a concern that had been pushed to the back of his mind as something that you just heard stories about, not things that could actually happen to you or your loved ones.

 

“What else would it be?” She asks ruefully, blinking up at the ceiling to try and stop the flow of tears.

 

“Who’s here for Tony Stark?” They suddenly hear from behind them. Both of them are on their feet in an instant, approaching the nurse who had just come through the ER double doors holding a clipboard.

 

“We are,” Steve says. “Just us two.”

 

“The emergency contacts, I presume?” The nurse glances to her coworker behind the desk who gives a nod of confirmation. “Mr. Rogers, Ms. Carter?”

 

“Yes,” they answer in unison.

 

“I’m Nurse Leyva, I spoke with both of you on the phone.”

 

“Is Tony alright? Can we please see him?” Peggy begs in desperation.

 

She glances back at the papers, her brow knit. “He just got out of surgery. He’s still coming around from the anesthesia, but he’ll still be in the recovery wing under close supervision while he heals. It’s hospital policy that…” she bites her lip, eyes flickering with uncertainty between them. “That only spouses and relatives are allowed to visit at this time. Ms. Carter, you’re listed here as Tony’s legal godmother so we can allow you through to him, but Mr. Rogers will unfortunately have to wait until he’s transferred to—”

 

“ _Bollocks_ ,” Peggy snaps, grasping Steve’s hand with her own. “Steve is as much family as I am— He’s listed as an emergency contact for Christ’s sake! You will let _both_ of us see him.”

 

Her expression is pained but serious. She’s clearly had to deliver this same speech before. “I understand your worry and frustration, but like I said, policy clearly states that only relatives or a spouse may—”

 

“Steve is his sodding _spouse_ ,” she hisses under her breath, her glare furious.

 

Both Steve and Nurse Leyva aren’t able to hide their shock at Peggy’s statement. Steve’s mouth is hanging open as he stares at the woman in surprise, not even having the mind to glance around and see if anyone overheard that statement.

 

The nurse is just as frazzled, luckily not even bothering to look to Steve for some kind of confirmation of the claim. “I-I apologize, it’s not listed here in the documentation—”

 

“Of course it’s not, are you _mad_? It’s not exactly something to advertise on paper, now is it?” She keeps her voice low, but it’s full of an acute anger. “Now take us to his partner and my godson before I have half a mind to sue this entire bloody hospital for flagrant discrimination!”

 

Peggy truly is a terrifying creature when she’s angry. Steve remembers how her accent seemed to strengthen when she would lecture the team, calling them _pillocking bell-ends_ and _right gits_. It’s good to know nothing changed in that regard.

 

“Right, of course. My apologies, Ms. Carter. Mr. Rogers,” she nods to both of them, keeping her eyes on the floor when she addresses Steve. “Please, right this way. Doctor Hallstatt should be with him now.”

 

Steve throws Peggy a grateful look as they follow the nurse through the double doors. It’s loud in the emergency wing, sounds of ringing and buzzing alarms mixing with nurses and doctors all talking over each other to form a loud cacophony as they bustle down the halls, the occasional patient in a wheelchair or gurney rolling by them. They’re led into an elevator and ascend up by one floor that’s a bit quieter with multiple rooms with windows up and down the halls. Steve loses his breath when he spots Tony through a window before they even reach his door. There’s another doctor and two more nurses inside the room, talking quietly and examining the readings on some big machine that’s next to his bedside.

 

The talking immediately halts when they enter. Steve crosses the room to get a good angle on Tony, the hospital staff immediately stepping aside so his view is no longer blocked. He’s unconscious, laying on his back with his arms at his sides. There are bruises and swelling on his face, and a bandage wrapped around his head. He can see the dried blood clumped in his hair by his temple, as well as some rust color seeping through the bandages. Purpling bruises are blossoming along his face and down his neck, visible beneath the bandages and oxygen mask over his face. He’s got IV’s stuck into his elbow and some wires going underneath the fabric of the gown and a brace on one hand that goes all the way up to his forearm, the other wrist heavily bandaged. His eyes are closed, form eerily motionless. Tony is never this still, even when sleeping naturally. He’s constantly twitching or shifting around, and even if his body is mostly static, his eyes can always be seen moving around behind his lids, face occasionally tweaking into some sort of expression based on whatever kind of vivid dreams he’s having. The only sign of life is the constant beeping of the machine next to him.

 

“What happened?” Peggy asks behind her hand, mouth covered in horror as she looks at her broken nephew lying before her.

 

The doctor nods to the two nurses who quickly exit the room. She straightens her glasses and sets her clipboard on the tray attached to the hospital bed. “He was found by a few pedestrians a few blocks down from a bar over in Kips Bay who called 911. They said he was going in and out of consciousness when they found him, but he was completely out when paramedics showed up. The people who found him said it looked like he was beaten within an inch of his life. We contacted the police in the area to keep an eye out for suspects, but we haven’t heard anything back yet.”

 

Peggy and Steve absorb this news in silence. Peggy moves to sit next to Tony’s bed, taking his bandaged hand in her own as gently as possible.

 

“Was he drunk?” Steve asks quietly, breaking the silence. Peggy shoots him an unreadable look that he ignores, eyes still trained on Tony’s still face.

 

“We did test his blood alcohol content when he came in. He was at a .23%, so, yes, he was fairly intoxicated.”

 

Steve shakes his head. Of course. He had promised Steve he’d come straight home from the airport, but had clearly decided a pit stop necessary first. He knew Tony was probably just trying to manage his anxiety, but it hurt deep in his chest that he felt he couldn’t even face Steve sober after months of not seeing each other.

 

***

Doctor Hallstatt goes on to explain all of his injuries, a long list that Steve has to sit down halfway through just to keep his knees from buckling. Multiple fractured ribs, a gash on the side of his head that needed five stitches, his left wrist and some of the bones in his hand and thumb were broken, and his right suffered a sprain. A slight puncture of his right lung from the injuries to his rib cage was still being treated, a small incision made during surgery to help the trapped air in his chest cavity escape while the tissue heals. For the internal damage, he was given emergency blood transfusions to correct the drop in blood pressure and blood loss, and the other corrections were successful, his wounds properly sutured. Now that the pressure has been alleviated to a substantial level, all that’s needed is time and the damage done to the inside is already healing by itself. Even though the worst of it isn’t outwardly visible, he has countless bruising all across his body from the attack. He suffered a severe concussion that they still need to wait for Tony to regain consciousness to fully assess, but shouldn’t be anything worse than some confusion and short-term memory loss for a few days. The X-Rays of his skull showed a slight fracture near the same site that the stitches were needed, but luckily no sign of brain damage or any trauma to permanently damage cognitive functions.

***

 

Steve excuses himself when the doctor is finished, forgoing the bathroom connected to Tony’s room to instead vomit with a little more privacy in the restroom down the hall. He’s never experienced a physical sickness from verbal stimuli alone, but it’s impossible to not feel completely ill after hearing everything Tony is suffering from. The police might not have any suspects or any kind of valid information other than some random assault by a bunch of drunks, but they don’t need an interrogation to know the reason why this happened.

 

This was the drop of the other shoe that Tony had been waiting for. Steve wishes his instinct could’ve been wrong for once.

 

After some time splashing his face with cold water and crying into the sink, Steve returns to Tony’s room. Doctor Hallstatt is gone now, leaving just Peggy, still holding Tony’s hand with her head resting on the bed, shoulders visibly heaving with sobs. Steve wordlessly pulls a chair up next to her and rubs her back until her crying eventually ceases.

 

“Am I supposed to be _grateful_ it’s not worse?” She eventually asks, voice full of bitterness and thick with tears as she blows her nose in the corner, having to pace around the room to get her bearings about her again. “Because I’m not.”

 

Steve isn’t feeling very grateful either. He’s angry. Furious. But he’s also too exhausted to deal with those emotions right now, compartmentalizing them for later when he has the energy to lash out at the world for being so cruel. He just needs to see Tony wake up.

 

As Peggy paces angrily up and down the room, Steve scoots his chair closer, reaching up to gently brush Tony’s hair back from his face. He picks up a cloth and wets it in the bedside sink, gently washing some of the clumps of dried blood from his soft locks that the doctors and nurses had missed. He tries not to let his eyes linger on the dark bruises marring his beautiful face.

 

“Thank you for saying what you said back there,” he says quietly, a little bit of that initial discomfort coming back to him. He clears his throat awkwardly. “It was quick-thinking. A good lie.”

 

He sees her pacing halt in his periphery, still tending to cleaning Tony up just to have anywhere else to put his attention. “Oh, darling,” he hears her sigh. “I know it wasn’t a lie in any way except for legality. The love you two have for each other is painfully obvious to anyone smart enough to pay attention.”

 

A laugh bubbles forth in surprise. Steve can’t help it, smiling ironically down at Tony as his fingers card gently through his hair, sure to avoid the bandaged parts where he knows the stitches lie underneath. “And here I thought we were being so secretive.”

 

“Oh, believe me, to the general public you two are doing a great job,” Peggy comes back over to sit next to Steve. He finally tears his gaze away from Tony to meet her eyes, feeling somehow more embarrassed and vulnerable than when Pepper had called him out. Maybe it’s because he knows Peggy personally and they’ve been friends since even before he met Tony— her nephew on top of everything else.

 

Steve stares down at his feet. “How long have you known?”

 

Peggy sets a hand on his, bringing his gaze back up to hers. She’s smiling at him, soft and understanding. “A while.”

 

Steve nods, knowing that there’s no need to explain himself or come up with excuses. He supposes that if he wasn’t able to hide it from Bucky for very long, it’s no surprise Tony’s closest familial figure figured it out either. It’s different than Pepper, a friend and a confidant knowing. Peggy is family to Tony, and she’s the only family he has left. Her support in this means the world to both of them.

 

“So what now?” He sighs, running a thumb over the ends of Tony’s bandaged fingers.

 

“Now…” Peggy leans back in her chair, watery eyes glancing back to the heart monitor, still steadily beeping away. “We wait for him to wake up.”

 

* * *

 

 

_He should’ve gone straight home to Steve. It’s not entirely his fault that the cab driver recognized him halfway through the drive and immediately pulled over and kicked him out of the car. He didn’t want someone like the likes of him in the back of his cab. Tony was too tired to argue. He could just catch another ride and still get home to Steve by the time promised._

 

_But it just so happened that the curb he got kicked to was directly outside of a bar. He’d just go in for a quick drink. It’s a cold, fall night, and who knows how long it might take to hail another cab on this random New York street. Might as well get a little warming liquid courage before he has to roam the streets attempting to hitch a ride home. He’d make it quick._

 

 _After two drinks, he got angry. Angry at the cab driver’s discriminatory attitude, and how it seemed to mirror so much of the world. He slammed back a third drink and stewed over the fact that people somehow justified their unsavory actions towards other human beings because of their bias. As he finished his fourth jack and coke, he glared at the TV screen in the corner of the bar through a watery gaze, watching replays from last week’s MLB games that officially qualified the two teams going to the World Series. He saw his own teammates on the screen, seeing the familiar logo that was stitched onto his own uniform flash up on the screen next to the emblem of the St. Louis Hydras. He should be ecstatic that he’ll be going to the_ World fucking Series, _the biggest MLB event of the year, but he’s far from it._

 

_Rather than crediting Tony for being a major key in the Knights’ success over the past couple of seasons, the outrage continues to come and go in waves over his blatant queerness. It’s not even like he went to interviews preaching about pride parades and flapping a rainbow flag around on the field. He’s hardly what anyone would call an “advocate”. He barely does press junkets anymore because nearly every question is about his sexuality, and Carol prefers to spare him from that and let his playing speak for itself. He just can’t win, no matter what he does._

 

_He noticed a group of men at the end of the bar eying him up, and not in a good way. He finished drink #5— or what's it #6 at this point?— and quickly paid his tab before leaving the bar, an unsettling weight landing in the pit of his stomach._

 

_He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked quickly down the street. It wasn’t a very busy block, but he did his best to make out the blurry street signs above him and try and navigate towards a more busy, well-lit, populated intersection where he could (hopefully) hail a ride back to Steve’s._

 

_He heard the shuffling of multiple feet behind him. As nonchalantly as he could manage, he chanced a look over one shoulder. It was the same group of four, maybe five guys that had been looking at him in the bar— at this point Tony couldn’t tell how severely his vision may be doubling._

 

_He took a quick turn to the right, hoping that him taking up a brisk jog didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Clearly he was just trying to jaywalk to the other side of the street and was trying to avoid being hit by any cars, not picking up the pace because of a fear to put distance between himself and his possible pursuers._

 

* * *

 

 

The ringing is back. A high pitched, continuous wail reverberating in his inner ear, irritating him to no end. He wants to shake his head to rid himself of the sound, but finds it difficult for his body to follow the function his brain is trying to perform.

 

He blinks his eyes against the blinding light piercing into his vision. It eventually fades to something more tolerable but still altogether too bright, shapes and color starting to manifest as well. He’s staring at speckled squares above him, eyes slowly lolling about in his head to take in the rest of the pale room. There’s a rectangle of light on the far wall his eyes haven’t adjusted to just yet, some other blurry shapes at the corners of his vision.

 

The ringing eventually ceases, replaced by a staccato _beep... beep... beep..._ His senses return to him slowly, first smelling something vaguely chemical-like, then tasting the dryness over his own mouth as well as something cooling that’s flowing through his airways. The dizziness begins to subside, needling pinpricks beginning at his fingertips and toes and slowly crawling up his extremities, the feeling of numbness fading away and being replaced by a slightly uncomfortable buzzing beneath his skin. He twitches his fingers on one hand, the other one still not cooperating yet. He stares down at it in annoyance, the feeling returning to his face and helping him realize there’s something strapped over his nose, mouth, and chin that blocks his vision. His neck feels stiff and hard to move, his frustration only growing at his plight.

 

_Beep… beep… beep, beep, beep, beep, beepbeepbeepbeep beeeeeeeee—_

 

Tony manages to get his right hand under control long enough to snake underneath his paper-thin shirt from an open slit in the side— since when did he own something like that?— He feels a small tube near the middle of his torso that’s solidly stuck into him, hand traveling up a little higher to a thin wire with something sticky on the end that he immediately rips off.

 

“...Tony? Oh, Tony! Honey, don’t touch that!” He hears a familiar voice from his right, blearily turning his head towards her.

 

“Aunt Peggy?” He attempts, but the words come out as jumbled garbage. There’s still that annoying mask over his face, and he reaches up to attempt to tear that away as well.

 

“No, darling, leave that be,” hands cover his own and gently lower it back to his own lap. He blinks up at her, seeing the familiar face of his aunt swirl into his vision. Everything looks soft and floaty, like he’s staring at an underwater painting with the edges all bleeding into each other and shifting around with shimmering bursts of light twinkling here and there. “Doctor? Nurse?” She looks between Tony and the door, torn. “I need a doctor in here! Please!”

 

“M’Tired,” he mumbles, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. He lets out a few irritated grunts, struggling to speak around the mask planted over his face, still blowing air into him.

 

Hesitantly, Peggy pulls it down slightly, leaving it around his neck just in case she needs to replace it. “What was that, honey?”

 

“Had… weirdest… dream,” he sighs, eyes beginning to drift shut again. The numbness starts to come back, washing over him and slowly erasing away his senses. “Think… back’sleep…”

 

“Sweetheart, wait just one moment, don’t go back to sleep just yet. Stay with me, Tony— just a little bit longer. The doctor is coming— Steve will be right back too.”

 

Hearing that name yanks him back to the edge of consciousness, fighting the heaviness of his lids. “Steve?” He asks quietly, voice feeling far away.

 

“Yes, he just stepped out for a moment, he’s coming right back to you, I promise.” As she says this, more figures enter the room, Tony scans them enough to see that none of them are Steve, so he closes his eyes and slips back under.

 

* * *

 

 

_It wasn’t a coincidence that the group followed him across the street, jeering something amongst themselves. Tony could hear them gaining on him. He took off at a sprint. Even if he was outnumbered, he knew he could outrun them._

 

_At least, that would be the case were he not piss drunk. He tripped over his own feet, shoulder catching against a parking meter on his way to the ground. He braced himself with his hands, feeling the skin of his palms burn as they scraped against the pavement. Half in the street, half on the curb, he struggled to right himself, the world spinning around him. Right as he managed to get his feet back under him, he felt something solid connect with his stomach, sending him sprawling back onto the ground._

 

_***_

_“Trying to run, flamer?”_

 

_“Prissy little bitch.”_

 

_“Come on, get up!”_

 

_Tony rolled onto his side, struggling to push himself back onto his feet. His vision was definitely doubling at that point, struggling to see how many figures were really there, surrounding him on all sides, silhouetted against the street lights above. He scrabbled back on all fours, just starting to get up when he feels a hand grip him by the hair and tug him up onto his knees before a fist connects with his face._

 

_“What’s wrong, faggot? Can’t take a hit?”_

 

_Blood filled his mouth. He bit it back, laying helplessly on the ground as one of the figures approached him again. He stared up, vision obscured as one of his eyelids was already starting to swell shut from the hit. He was still coherent enough to make out the fuzzy details of the very familiar Avengers logo emblazoned on a couple of hats and jerseys worn by his assailants. How ironic._

 

_Using any ounce of coordination he had, Tony launched himself at the man’s legs in an attempt to knock him over. He felt the man grunt and stumble back, tripping over himself trying to get free. It earns him a kick to the side, which is quickly met with another foot planting itself on his shoulder and forcing him onto his back. A kick to his side rolled him one way, yet another foot connecting with him on the opposite side to send him back over. He could feel a blinding pain in his chest, his breath shortening as his hand instinctively went to his flank. Definitely a broken rib or two. He was outnumbered and they were closing in on him, he had to get out._

 

_He took a few more kicks, doing his best to curl up and take the abuse, hands coming up around his head to protect his most precious asset. When he saw a break in the grouping, he used the last of his energy to jump to his feet and shove past the men._

 

_“Where do you think you’re going, fairy?” He was grabbed by the back of his jacket and carelessly shoved towards an alleyway. He lost his footing yet again and dropped down to his hands and knees, immediately scrambling to get up again. “We’re not done yet!”_

_***_

 

* * *

 

He awakens again, less groggy than before. The room around him seems to snap back into focus faster now, the blurry shapes quickly solidifying into doors, cabinets, windows, and people. His displeasure with his current predicament comes back a lot quicker as well, having to instinctively stop himself from removing the annoying sticky things on his chest— of which there were now two— or trying to move his body parts that were not quite ready for movement yet. His awareness is much sharper now, partly because the only light is a small lamp in the corner, the window just showing darkness and speckled city lights below. He’s not so overstimulated by the harsh, artificial light from the ceiling, able to take in his surroundings a lot easier now.

 

He can tell the IV in his arm is pumping him full of some kind of numbing drug, the anesthetics present but wearing off. He looks down at himself to examine his condition. There’s a bit of soreness around his body, but the medicine prevents his brain to process which points exactly the pain is coming from. The annoying oxygen mask is no longer covering his face, and he takes a few deep breaths to test the waters. His ribs definitely ache with each inhale but he doesn’t feel either of his lungs bursting from the effort, so that at least is a good sign. His left hand is in a firm brace that makes it impossible to do much beyond wiggle his very fingertips, the binding going all the way up to his elbow. His useable hand is bandaged enough to keep him from using his joints to their full mobility, but he’s able to at least feel around with it. Gingerly, he presses around his chest, wincing when he feels what are definitely a few broken ribs. He touches his face next, feeling a bit of retreating swelling along one eyebrow, a busted lip, and a bandage into his hairline over his left ear.

 

As his fingers run over his head, he briefly remembers the sound of his skull cracking against the ground. The flash of memory is gone in a snap, Tony’s brow furrowing. Where was he when that happened? Who caused it? He can’t remember anything beyond getting on the plane in D.C… He can’t even recall leaving the airport. Did something happen there? Why hadn’t he just taken a cab straight to Steve like he originally planned?

 

His head starts to throb the more he thinks about it, so Tony pushes away the past and surveys the room the best he can with his mind still sufficiently addled. There’s no one else in the room with him, but there’s evidence on the counter and across the armchairs in the room that suggest regular visitors. There are blinds drawn over the window on the interior wall, but he can see through the slats to the dimly lit and quiet hospital wing. There’s a single nurse behind a counter, doing her best to work through the night shift. He watches her turn to face someone out of view, smiling and giving a polite nod.

 

Seconds later, Tony’s door opens. His gaze lazily drifts over, wondering if he’s still dreaming when he sees Steve standing in the doorway, looking ghastly and downtrodden. There are dark circles under his eyes and day-old stubble shadowing his normally clean-shaven face, his shirt collar wrinkled and hair limply swept to the side. He’s holding a steaming coffee in his hand, wiping a hand down his face as he trudges over to Tony’s bedside. About four steps in, he seems to finally realize that Tony is not only awake, but is sitting up and staring back at him.

 

The styrofoam cup hits the ground, hot liquid splashing along his shoes and the floor. “Tony,” he breaths out, stumbling forward. He catches himself on the edge of the bed, seeming to struggle between wanting to throw his arms around Tony but also needing to be careful because of his wounds. Tony raises his good arm to him and pulls him closer by the shirt, pressing their foreheads together.

 

Carefully, Steve cups the less-swollen side of his face and presses their lips together. Tony doesn’t have a lot of energy in the bank to pour into it, but it seems like Steve is trying to be gentle with him anyway, just giving a chaste, close-lipped kiss of reassurance that they’re together again. Instinctively, they both pull away rather hastily, Steve checking over his shoulder to make sure no one is peering in on them. The lone nurse has her back to them, no other witnesses privy to their interaction.

 

“Thank god you’re okay,” Steve breathed out, still holding his face. “The doctors said you woke up yesterday morning but I had just run out to get breakfast for Peggy and I—”

 

“Peggy?” Tony asks in a small voice, doing another once over of the room to make sure he hadn’t missed her somehow. “Is she still here?”

 

“No, but she’ll be back in the morning. We’ve both been sleeping here the past few days, but we convinced each other to take turns so we can get an okay night’s sleep every once in a while,” he explains, pulling a chair back up so he can sit next to Tony, holding his bandaged hand. “How are you feeling? Do you need more pain medication? The doctors have been saying at this point you’re just in recovery, but I want to make sure you’re not in any pain. I can go get a nurse—”

 

Tony squeezes his hand the best he can with his awkward limbs, urging him to stop when he starts to get to his feet again. “No, m’fine, just— Just lay with me?” Even after all the sleeping he’s been doing—did Steve say days?—he’s feeling tired and light-headed again.

 

Steve glances over his shoulder again and signals for Tony to wait, closing the blinds completely before he crawls into bed next to him, gently helping scoot him over without disrupting him too much. Tony feels his body protest with the movement, gritting his teeth to hide it. He just wants to be with Steve, he doesn’t care about the pain.

 

“Just for a bit,” Steve laments, letting Tony curl into his side the best he can. “Don’t want someone to find us like this.”

 

“Mmhm,” Tony sighs happily, tucking his face into Steve’s chest. The sound of the machine’s incessant beeping is replaced by the steady thumping of Steve’s heartbeat. “Had a dream… Can’t ‘member it now…”

 

Steve’s fingers gently card through his hair, coaxing him further over the edge. “Shh, no need to think about it too hard. Tell me about it in the morning, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Tony sighs, letting himself be swallowed by darkness again.

 

* * *

 

 

_***_

_Dizzy from the punch to the face, Tony couldn’t quite get his bearings to escape. Two men grab each of his arms and restrain him, his much smaller form struggling helplessly as his arms get twisted behind him. He suffers a few more punches to the gut, crumbling in their arms and vomiting on the ground. There were sniggers and cheers as he’s hauled down a dark alleyway. The men threw him forward, Tony no longer having the reaction time to try and brace himself before the fall._

 

_His head connected with the pavement with a sickening crack, bright flashes of light bursting in his vision despite the darkness of the alleyway. There was a high pitched ringing in his ear as he yet again attempted to right himself, only to be grabbed by the ankles and dragged back a few feet._

 

_Laying on his stomach, something warm and sticky pooling around his face, he feels shoe treads dig down against his arms, pinning them to the ground. A strangled cry echoed in the alleyway that Tony didn’t even realize was his own voice at first. A sharp pain shot up his left hand, traveling up his wrist and to his elbow as he felt something solid connect with his bones there. There was no time to focus on that pain as another strike came to his opposite hand, another sob of pain tearing its way from his throat._

 

_He lost count of the hits he took after that. Breathing became difficult, Tony sucking down air but seemingly not getting any of the satisfaction, feeling like he was suffocating on nothing the entire while. The pain became a dull sting all over his body, and he was unsure of whether or not it was the rush of adrenaline, the alcohol, the concussion, or the amount of abuse he was getting from all sides. He seemed to lose consciousness briefly every few seconds, part of his brain coming back to him long enough to register another kick here or punch there._

_***_

 

_At one point, he opened his eyes to a blinding brightness, briefly wondering if this was the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Ironically enough, he wanted to see what was going to come next just to finally know if his atheism was as unfounded as his parents claimed. He blinks against the light, seeing two female figures leaning over him. Their mouths were moving in a panic, more colored lights flashing behind them, illuminating their figures from behind. His guardian angels, perhaps?_

 

_He closed his eyes against the blinding light, now seeing Steve’s face behind his lids for a brief moment before blackness engulfed him._

 

* * *

 

 

Tony jolts awake, immediately hyper sensitive to his surroundings. He feels wet, back and chest slick with sweat, itchy hospital gown clinging to him. There’s people staring back at him in surprise, Steve, Peggy, and a doctor. He pushes himself into a sitting position, his entire body seizing up in protest. Sets of hands are on him in an instant, gently easing him back down onto the damp mattress. The ringing in his ears is back, their voices sounding like Tony was hearing them from miles away. Whereas before the pain was nothing but a dull sensation gently reverberating across his entire body, now he feels concentrated areas of throbbing agony coming from his chest, stomach, back, and hands. The stinging pain is accompanied by a pounding headache concentrated around one temple.

 

“Need… more… fucking… drugs,” he grinds out, his own voice sounding garbled and distant.

 

The doctor is mouthing something to him, examining a fluid bag that is hanging next to him and hooked up to his IV. She calls out the door to someone else. Peggy surges forward now, cupping his face in both of her hands. She’s crying, glistening tears rolling heavily down her cheeks. He reaches up to try and wipe at them with his debilitated hands, re-examining them in the light.

 

His right one is bandaged tightly, but he seems to be able to flex his fingers with minimal pain. The slight throbbing increases when he rotates his wrist, unable to get full mobility on it. His left hand is much worse off. It’s braced in something that’s almost a full cast but not quite, bound up in a heavy-duty brace that completely immobilizes any movement past his elbow. Either his radius or is ulna, he can’t tell which one, feels broken near the wrist, another sharp pain coming from where his thumb connects to his hand when he attempts to wiggle it in the brace. The doctor’s hands move from his chest to his hands when she sees him assessing the damage.

 

The high pitched ring in his ears gets progressively louder before it suddenly starts to fade, the sounds around him coming back into focus fuzzily, like his brain is rotating a dial back and forth trying to find the right frequency.

 

It’s Steve’s voice that breaks through first. “—you hear us? Tony? Can you nod or speak again?”

 

“Yeah,” he says heavily, nodding his head as gently as possible to not disturb whatever injury he might’ve sustained to his skull. “It’s… It’s coming back.”

 

Steve sighs in relief, the rest of the hospital sounds and other voices coming back in tune as well. Another nurse comes in with an additional IV bag, hands him water and a small Dixie cup with pills to down. She offers to place them in his mouth for him but Tony just holds out his “good” hand. “I’m not completely helpless, I can take some damn pills by myself.”

 

“Tony, they’re just here to help,” Steve chides gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

 

Tony shoots him a glare before apologizing to the nurse who just offers an understanding smile and finishes tending to his IV.

 

“Now that you’re fully awake, I’d like to evaluate your condition, if you feel up to that, Mr. Stark,” the doctor states, scanning her eyes over the machine next to him.

 

“Tony is fine,” he fiddles with the settings on the bed until he’s inclined to a comfortable sitting position. “And sure, after I go to the bathroom. Am I allowed to do that by myself?”

 

“If you feel up to it,” the doctor answers with a dry smile. He likes her already.

 

Tony freezes in front of the mirror above the sink when the door clicks shut behind him, and it’s not because he’s looking particularly handsome this morning. He looks and feels like he got hit by a truck. There’s still some leftover swelling around his eye and jaw, spotty bruises yellowing in some spots and still deep shades of purples and blues in others. There's a couple of healing scratches on his face, but his nose and jaw look mostly intact.

 

He lifts up the hospital gown and immediately drops it in shock, unsure if that’s his own body he’s staring at. Slowly, he lifts it again, blinking as if it might just be a trick of the light. He doesn’t feel like he’s looking at himself, his own torso unrecognizable to him. He felt the bindings around his chest, the taping up of his ribs to help them heal, but it looks so much worse when he takes in all the bandages and wrappings. He’s got deep bruising on his sides and back, parts of his skin still showing signs of visible blood capillaries and leftover damage across previously unmarred skin. He would’ve stood there for another ten minutes before remembering Doctor Hallstatt is waiting on him, and the last thing he wants is for her to send some nurse in because she thinks he’s fallen down trying to take a piss.

 

When he comes back out, Steve and Peggy are gone. Doctor Hallstatt speaks before he can ask where they went. “I asked them to step outside just so I can evaluate your condition properly, just the two of us.”

 

“You could at least take me to dinner first,” Tony grouches, wheeling his IV stand along with him as he climbs back into the bed.

 

“Sadly, bland hospital food is all I have for you,” She places a tray on the attached table of his bed, Tony staring down at the diagonally cut white bread sandwich, apple sauce, and pudding.

 

“At least you admit it,” he sighs before gratefully tucking in. If Steve knows him at all, he’s taking this opportunity to run to the McDonald’s across the street to try and sneak in a terrible, non-healthy burger.

 

The doctor confirms most of the injuries he was able to assess himself. Apparently as of now they’re out of the red zone, his most detrimental wounds should’ve having re-opened by now if they were going to at all. At this point all his body has to do is heal, and soon he’ll be moved out of the ER and into the general wing for recovery for the next week or two. She runs a few questions by him, checking on any lasting effects from his concussion. Once he begins to recite the basic components of creating neurokinetic, morphologic nanoparticles off to her, she deems that his brain has recovered.

 

“And my hands?” Tony asks, staring down at them. He gets a phantom tingle from both wrists, remembering being held down and stomped on by his assailants.

 

“Your right only suffered a sprain We’ll want to keep it in a brace for a few weeks and limit your useage of it just to insure it heals as normal. Your left however…” She digs around in a folder that appears to be his very thick record, showing him a few X-Rays of the broken bones in his arm, hand, and thumb. “We’ll need to get a cast on it now that it’s had some time to set while you’ve been unconscious. Approximately eight weeks with the full cast, then we can put this type of bracer back on for another six weeks and then go from there. Which is your dominant?”

 

“Both. I favor my left though,” he admits sourly.

 

“Looks like your right will have to do for the near future, then,” she says sympathetically.

 

“Long term damage?” He does a remarkable job at keeping his voice even considering if his hands are done for, then he’s got nothing left. No more baseball, no more building, no piano, nothing.

 

“Both of your hands will be fine with time,” she says, Tony exhaling deeply in relief, probably losing any hint of indifference he had been trying to save face with. “Your right will regain full mobility within 2-3 months as long as you don’t over exert yourself. Even after the cast and brace come off for your left, you will still need a few months of limited use and physical therapy just to ensure no further damage do it. Luckily, most of the breaks are clean. And like I mentioned before, we’ll still need to keep you here a while longer just until your ribs and the internal tears heal further. When you’re released you’ll need to be put on bed rest, and no strenuous physical activity for six months following.”

 

“Doc, it sounds like I’m not going to be pitching in the World Series later this month,” he smiles sardonically.

 

She smiles back at him, sadness in her eyes. “I am sorry, Tony. My family are all big Avengers’ fans.”

 

“Want me to sign your stethoscope for you?” He asks, bringing up both of his immobilized hands.

 

She laughs and gently eases his arms back to his sides. “Limited use, remember? We all want to see you back on that field.”

 

His eyes drop away, good humor waning slightly. “Not everyone,” he responds quietly, not even meaning to voice it out loud. He blames the concussion.

 

Something in her expression changes, brow furrowing in frustration. “Now that everything is mostly sorted… Tony, do you remember anything from the attack? We can have a police officer come in to take your statement. They did the best they could with eyewitness accounts while you were unconscious, but didn’t come up with anything right away. If you have anything, _anything_ at all you remember, it would be helpful.”

 

Tony thinks back to the choppy bits of his memory, but the more he tries to grasp onto details, the quicker they slip away, just like any other dream. Every time he had awoken over the past few days, he remembered the encounter so vividly for only a few seconds before it faded to nothing but the memory of pain and fear. “I don’t,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, I won’t have anything helpful to tell the police. It was just a group of drunk guys at that bar. I didn’t get a good look at their faces. If they weren’t able to pull anything from CCTV then there’s nothing more I can offer them.”

 

She presses her lips together and nods. “Of course. Well, if you remember anything, please let someone know right away.” She straightens up, collecting her files. “I’ll send Steve and Peggy back in. Some nurses will come by in a bit to have you moved to the general wing as well.” She walks over to the door, hesitating with her hand on the handle. “I also wanted to mention that we recommend very limited to none smoking or drinking for the sake of your lungs and your liver, Tony.”

 

The last part is said more as a strict warning rather than a suggestion. “Right,” Tony responds dryly. “Thank you, Doctor.”

 

She leaves without another word, Tony sinking back against the uncomfortable mattress to stare up at the ceiling blankly until Steve and Peggy re-enter. Now that he’s fully awake and coherent, he can offer his assurances to Peggy who has remarkably pulled herself together. Before they can ask, he tells them he can’t remember anything useful from the attack and that there’s no point in trying to investigate further and press charges. Steve is visibly upset by this, clearly holding himself back from starting an argument right then and there. He nods, tight-jawed, and fishes a grease-spotted brown paper bag with a big yellow M on it from his bag to set down in Tony’s lap.

 

“Oh man, I love you,” Tony gushes before he realizes what he’s said. He freezes up instinctively, but neither Steve nor Peggy seem phased by the confession.

 

“Please, darling, did you really think I hadn’t figured it out by now?” Peggy deadpans, seating herself on the edge of Tony’s bed while Steve sheepishly pulls one of the chairs back up and rests a hand on Tony’s thigh while he eats. “You two have my blessing of course, even though Steve _is_ a little old for you, sweetheart—”

 

“Oh my god,” he groans, covering his face with his arm. “I’m not having this discussion. Please, call the doctor back to put me out of my misery now.”

 

She nudges his foot playfully and drops the subject. Thankfully, no one brings up the assault, his condition, or the World Series. Tony lets Steve and Peggy just talk and fill him in on everything he’s been missing out on the past few months while he isolated himself with drink and work, forgetting the people who ever actually meant something to him. He slips his bandaged hand into Steve’s as he eats, letting the man feed him French fries and wipe ketchup from his chin.

 

As promised, nurses come by a couple of hours later to collect Tony’s things and wheel him down to the other wing. He’ll be allowed visitors now, Steve informing him that the team has been coming by constantly to check in on his condition, namely Rhodey and Bruce. Tony feels a pang of sadness, trying to remember the last time he corresponded with either of them. He thought he has been doing everyone a service, keeping his distance with all the controversy these past couple of years, but maybe he’s only been harming himself in the process.

 

As soon as word gets out to the team he’s allowed visitors now, they come flooding in by progressively growing groups. Natasha is the first to turn up, Tony getting about a hour of calm one-on-one time with her before more of his teammates start piling in. Rhodes is next to turn up, Clint and Quill quick to follow. The amount raises exponentially, Scott, Bruce, and Thor showing up with their other teammates, arms full of balloons, stuffed animals, snacks, and other goodies. Janet comes by with swaths of get well soon cards and gifts from fans that have been piling up outside of the Avengers’ stadium. He’s touched by the fact that people seem to care, Janet telling him the news of the assault is spreading quickly, and that there’s a similar amount of presents and well wishes left outside the Knights’ stadium as well. Nurses come by to scold the rowdy group, informing them that no more than four visitors are allowed in at a time, effectively thinning the party in Tony’s cramped room over the next few days.

 

Now that he’s in better spirits, Peggy’s visits lessen as well. While it’s time off for the rest of them, she still has plenty to do as the owner of the Stars now that they’re in the post-season. Tony’s not allowed out of bed very often, the doctors and nurses insistent that he stay away from even mild physical activity while under their care. His friends visit him often to offer enough entertainment, and Steve brings him books to read in his down time so he doesn’t go _completely_ stir-crazy.

 

He tries putting off the cast as long as possible, hating the idea of having to go around with this big, clunky, plaster abomination on his arm for the next few months. Doctor Hallstatt eventually comes into his room himself and tells him they need to do it while his bones are still properly set to heal.

 

“Quit your pouting,” Steve chides, coming in afterwards with two coffees. “It’s just a cast.”

 

“Easier said than done,” Tony grumbles. It is nice at least that he has to be a little less careful with his left hand now that it’s perma-sealed into the hideous lime green prison. He’s pretty sure Doctor Hallstatt picked that color for the outer wrapping specifically just to torture his subordinance. “Thanks for the coffee,” he sighs, taking it with his right hand that’s now fitted in a brace that allows him at least to _sort of_ use his fingers.

 

“Peter got it, actually.”

 

“Quill?” Tony wrinkles his nose and stares down into the cup suspiciously. “Should we test for laxatives?”

 

“Sorry, Peter Parker, not Quill,” Steve corrects, looking over his shoulder with an amused smile. “I think he’s still pacing around in the lobby trying to gather the courage to come meet you.”

 

“Ah, the fanboy. Just tell him to come in, would you?”

 

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” Steve pokes his head out, of the room, looking back down the hallway. “He came here alone today instead of with the rest of the guys, which is progress. He can’t hide behind the max visitor rule,” he chuckles in amusement. “Must’ve lost his nerve after getting the coffee.”

 

Tony frowns and sips at it. He’s not sure if Steve told him his usual order, or if the kid is as obsessed as everyone teases him about, but it’s exactly how he likes it. “Go tell him I said to get his ass in here. Drag him by the collar if you have to, I don’t care.”

 

Steve spares him a sly grin and shrugs. “I’ll do my best.” Tony watches him go down the hallway and turn the corner, waiting impatiently for him to return. He hears Steve’s voice come back down the hallway a few minutes later, another younger, nervous sounding voice accompanying him.

 

“—It’s okay, Captain Rogers, really! I don’t want to bother him if he’s resting!”

 

“I told you he’s fine. No one else is here.”

 

“That makes it so much worse! What if I don’t have anything interesting to say?”

 

“Peter, relax. Your shoulders are going to get stuck like that if you leave them for too long.”

 

The next thing Tony sees is a scrawny looking teenager get pushed into the room, the tops of his shoulders seemingly connected to his ears. Steve’s got his hands on the kid’s back, guiding him into the room and pushing the door shut with his foot behind him to prevent escape.

 

Peter is staring at him openly, mouth hanging open ever so slightly as he looks at Tony like he personally provides the air he breathes. Tony raises his eyebrows slightly as the silence stretches on, looking between Steve and the seemingly catatonic kid. “Hey, you must be Peter,” he greets, looking the kid up and down. He has a similar build to Tony when he first started playing ball, slim and a bit gangly beneath his faded Nintendo t-shirt and flannel tied around his waist.

 

Even after Tony speaks, it takes Peter a moment to get his bearings. His eyes suddenly snap to the ground as if he’s finally realizing how long he’s been gaping at him. “M-Mister Stark, it’s an- an honor to finally meet you!” He squeaks out, a bright flush to his cheeks as he continues to address Tony while staring at his beat up high tops with crooked laces. “I’m a big fan-- Sorry, I’m sure you hear that all the time,” he winces inwardly at himself and Steve gives him an encouraging pat on the back.

 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it all the same,” Tony answers smoothly, glancing to Steve in amusement. His boyfriend just shrugs helplessly and leans against the wall, still casually blocking the door with his frame. Subtle. “How old are you, kid?”

 

“Eigh— Erm, nineteen,” he answers sheepishly.

 

“C’mere,” Tony nods to one of the chairs next to his bed. Peter moves almost robotically, coming to sit down next to Tony. His demeanor shifts once again, realizing that not looking Tony in the eye is getting a little weird. Nervous blue eyes flicker up to meet his face, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “That’s how old I was when I first played your old Cap here. Back before we were on the same team.”

 

“I know!” Peter then burst excitedly, immediately shrinking back in embarrassment. He rubs a hand through his mop of brown hair. “The All-Star Game in ‘89. The PCL won.”

 

“Yeah we did,” Tony grins, winking over at Steve who’s rolling his eyes. “So I heard you’re a damn good pitcher.”

 

Peter’s fingers dig into the ratty holes in his jeans, picking at the loose denim strands absently. “I-I’m okay. Nowhere near as good as you, sir.”

 

Sir. Tony almost laughs. “Of course not, no one is.” Steve coughs from the corner. “But I’ve watched your games. You’re a little ace, aren't you?”

 

Peter flushes even more if it’s even possible, a nervous smile gracing his lips. “I try my best.”

 

“How long have you been playing?”

 

“Just the last few years. I graduated high school early and started playing in the rookies. Was only there for one season before I was recruited to be an Avenger,” he seems to choke on the last word slightly, admiration shining in his eyes. So he’s not just a fan of Tony’s then.

 

“Any college plans? Not that it matters,” Tony asks, genuinely curious.

 

“I was going to go for biochemistry and engineering, but then things sort of took off with my pitching,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

Tony raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Biochem _and_ engineering, huh? That’s pretty impressive. I’ve got some pull at MIT, you know.”

 

Peter’s eyes shine, and that’s apparently all it takes before the floodgates open. They spend the next few hours talking about their shared loves for science and maths, Tony just imagining poor Bruce probably having to endure the kid’s motor mouth. Then again, he puts up with Tony, so this little sapling is probably no skin off his nose. Peter is exceptionally bright, both in how he plays baseball and talks about his knack for science. He really does remind Tony of himself.

 

“You should consider school,” Tony tells Peter as they start to wrap things up, insisting the boy be the first to sign his cast. He's flabbergasted by the honor, scrawling his signature across the plaster in Sharpie before he has to get home for dinner with his Aunt. “It’s clear you have a gift for pitching, but don’t let that be the only gift people think has any value, okay? Keep doing it if you love it, but don’t forget your other passions. You’ve got more to offer people than throwing a few balls, okay?”

 

Peter looks at him with wide eyes, nodding so vigorously he’s scared the kid’s head might fall right off. “Yes, Mr. Stark! Thank you for the advice!” He chirps, still beaming as he passes Steve on his way out. “Bye, Captain! See you soon.”

 

“See you,” Steve waves casually. He waits until Peter exits through the doors to the lobby before he turns a knowing smile on Tony.

 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Tony orders, suddenly very interested in the thread count of his hospital bed sheets. “What? He’s a good kid is all.”

 

“Oh, nothing. Just remembering something you said about being a shit mentor is all,” he hums, still smiling as he comes to sit on the edge of Tony’s bed so he can help him fill in that day’s New York Times crossword.

 

Steve leaves his side only briefly during his stay, and only when the max visitor rule applies, stepping out of the room so Tony’s other friends have time to visit with him. After a week of him cramming his frame into the uncomfortable armchair night after night, Tony finally convinces him that he’s not going anywhere and that Steve needs a good night’s rest too.

 

At this point Tony is independent of an IV drip, his fluids and blood levels all returning to normal. He’s still provided with plenty of medication to numb the pain and also help him sleep, Tony fairly sure he’s gotten more hours in this past week than he has the past month.

 

When he wakes up the next morning, head still bogged down with sleep, he can see a blonde figure seated in the chair by his bedside, flipping through a magazine. “I thought I told you to go home and sleep,” he says around a yawn.

 

“I don’t remember that.”

 

Tony’s gaze cuts over sharply, doing a slight double-take. It’s Tiberius’ dark, charcoal eyes that stare back at him, not Steve’s pale blues. Ty is smiling at him, looking smug for whatever reason— possibly just for catching Tony off guard for once.

 

“Ty?” He rubs his eyes again, the aching of his ribs as he shifts into a sitting position letting him know he’s not dreaming. “What are you doing here?”

 

“What do you mean? I came to check on my best friend,” he says, mockingly affronted. “The whole team’s been worried sick. Pierce and Coach Danvers allowed me to come out here to check on you on their behalf.”

 

Tony narrows his eyes suspiciously. There’s something in Ty’s tone that makes the hair on his arms stand up, but he can’t quite place what it is. “That’s surprising. World Series is in a couple of weeks. I find it hard to believe they’d want to spare their precious Captain.”

 

Ty’s expression is unreadable, which is unsettling in itself. The man is _overly_ open most of the time, so he’s clearly putting some effort in to appear guarded. “I insisted to come here myself. I was worried about you, T.”

 

Tony’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “We’ve known each other since we were kids, Tibs. I can read you like a book. Why are you really here?”

 

Ty seems to hold up the facade for a few seconds longer before sighing and crossing his arms, leaning against the wall. “Always right to the point, aren’t you?”

 

Tony smiles balefully. “I prefer to be direct.”

 

Ty’s lips pull together and push out, mulling his next words over in his head carefully before speaking. “I did come to make sure you’re alright, Tony. I care about your well-being. When I heard about the assault, of course I came as soon as I was able.” He pauses again. Every sentence is as calculated as ever, even when it’s just the two of them. He’s always hated that about Ty. “I also thought I should be the one to tell you.”

 

Tony searches his face, finding no giveaways. “Tell me what? Quit playing fucking games and spit it out already,” He demands impatiently.

 

Ty sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. “Management thinks it’s best if you’re dropped down to the 40-Man roster for the rest of your contract.”

 

Tony balks. “That can’t be right. That’s for _two more years_ , Ty. The doctors cleared me to play again after six months, and even my hands will be healed before that. I’ll be good to play by mid-season next year— Pierce and his team knows that, I talked with him and Carol already—”

 

“They’ve made up their mind, Tony,” Tiberius interrupts. “But I heard after your hands heal, you could be added back to the active roster—”

 

“To keep my contract,” Tony interrupts what Ty is probably trying to spin as a positive with the truth. “As long as they don’t leave me on the 40-man for more than a full season, I can’t be optioned to the Minors or be up for the draft for another team in December. Can’t break my contract ‘cause it’ll blackball me from playing until my lease is up with them. They’re leaving me _stranded_ in fucking limbo.”

 

He thinks Ty is going to try and deny it at first, convince Tony otherwise. His demeanor shifts suddenly, giving a careless shrug. “Good thing you never really cared about playing for us, huh?”

 

Tony’s eyes snap to him, widening slightly. “Jesus christ, Ty. You’re _loving_ this right now, aren’t you? You came here to fucking _gloat—_ ”

 

“Tony!” Ty puts his hand on his chest in clear offense. “I was _worried_ about you—”

 

“Were you? Or are you mistaking genuine worry for guilt that you feel the same way about me as the scumbags who thought they could beat the gay out of me?”

 

His eyes have widened to the size of dinner plates, spluttering his denials. “How could you say something like that? I don’t hate you because you’re gay—”

 

“Ah, right. You just hate me because I’m better than you. Not a homophobe, just an asshole.”

 

Ty doesn’t have a response for that. Coldness takes over his features, easily dropping the facade of innocence.

 

More pieces fall into place, the sudden realization washing over him. He laughs, much to Ty’s confusion, having to press a hand against his ribs just in hopes of not busting one from his sudden fit. “Holy shit, those snakes are fucking _geniuses_. It’s a win on all sides, right? No flack from the media for kicking me off the team because I’m gay, but all the close-minded fans will be happy someone like me won’t have anymore game time. They can always just fall back on the excuse of my injuries keeping me from the active roster. Me getting the shit kicked out of me was the perfect scapegoat to fall into Pierce’s lap so The Knights have no blood on their hands.”

 

As Tony continues on, Ty’s indifference visibly shifts into that of derisive satisfaction, a cruel smile stretching over too-white teeth. “Look at you, clever boy, always able to figure it out.”

 

His walls have dissolved completely, Tony almost choking on the scornful apathy in the air. “I bet you’re fucking pleased.”

 

“Oh, believe me, I am,” he answers, still grinning with malice. “I am sorry it played out as it did. I really do hate to see my dear friend so defeated... But let’s face it, even if something like this hadn’t happened, it was only a matter of time until you followed down your father’s dark, dark path of alcoholism. I’d hate to see you end up like your sweet parents.”

 

Tony deserves an award for holding himself back, not even so much as twitching at the low blow. He refuses to give Ty anymore than he’s already getting, keeping his expression composed. “You’ll finally have the spotlight with me out of the picture. Funny, I guess not even the steroids were enough to surpass me.”

 

Now it’s Tony’s turn to be a smug bastard. Ty’s expression is almost comical, his grin wiped off his face without his consent, his entire posture changing. His nostrils flare defensively, mouth twitching to try and form an ass-covering response.

 

“Cat got your tongue?” Tony asks with a saccharine tilt of his head, oozing with impertinence. _Two can play at this game, Ty. And just like the games from when we were kids: I’m better than you._

 

He still hasn’t managed to recover, having been prepared to haughtily torture Tony from the high ground, not be sucker punched and brought down to his level. “How… How did you…”

 

“You said it yourself, I’m always able to figure it out,” Tony shrugs. “Honestly, I’m surprised no one else has caught you. You, and the thirteen other guys on the team who you probably roped into thinking it’s a good idea. I watch tapes of each player every week. I see how fast some of the changes are, and let me tell you, those results are _very_ noticeable. Some could even say naturally and physically impossible.”

 

Tiberius gets his feet from under him, squaring his shoulders to try and strike an imposing figure. “No one will believe you,” he threatens darkly.

 

The worst part is, Tony knows he’s right. It’s not like the Knights are the only players who do it either. “Who said I was going to tell anyone?”

 

Ty scoffs, shaking his head as he turns his back on him and heads for the door. “You still lose, Tony. You can be as bitter as you want from the sidelines while _I_ win us games.”

 

“At least I didn’t cheat my way to the top,” Tony responds venomously.

 

Ty freezes in the doorway, throwing one last icy look over his shoulder. “At least I’m still at the top. Look at where being honest got _you_.”

 

For once, Ty walks away with the last word.

 

* * *

 

He’s still thinking about his visit from Tiberius the following week as he waits for the doctors to finish up with his paperwork. Steve brings him fresh clothes and helps him into the wheelchair, leaving him in the lobby so he can pull the car around front. The World Series starts tomorrow. Tony is expected to be there even if he’s not playing, having been mailed his plane ticket to St. Louis and itinerary courtesy of Hill and Coulson. It’s already torn up and settling in the bottom of a random hospital trash can, Tony having purchased a ticket to take him straight home to D.C. tomorrow morning instead. He doesn’t know how any of them believed even for a second that he would show his face in support of them after they’ve essentially dragged him out back, tied him to a tree, and shot him in the leg, left to bled out on his own.

 

“Alright, Mr. Stark,” Dr. Hallstatt is smiling as she comes in, flipping through the last of her paperwork. “Looks like you are finally cleared to go. It’s been a pleasure having you, and honestly, even I’m surprised that I mean that.” She sets a bag in his lap, full of all the lovely pain medications he’ll be taking for the next month. “Read the labels carefully and call me if you have any questions about refilling the prescription. And _please_ , remember to take care of yourself.”

 

“Not my forte, but I’ll do my best,” he grins at her.

 

She stands behind him and takes the handles of the wheelchair, wheeling him down through the hallways out to the front of the hospital. He can see Steve’s ugly Pinto waiting for him.

 

He neglects Steve’s offering of his hand and gets up himself to walk the two feet to the car door. He isn’t totally helpless, even if he does still ache all over and in certain positions it’s a little difficult to breathe. He lets Steve close the door from him, staring straight ahead while the man shakes Dr. Hallstatt’s hand and loads the wheelchair in the back.

 

“Excited to be going home?” Steve asks encouragingly, resting his hand on Tony’s thigh as he goes to drop him off at his hotel for tonight.

 

“We’ll see,” Tony hums and very gently pushes Steve’s hand off his thigh. He avoids his gaze, staring out of the window for the rest of the ride.

 

Tony’s new bodyguard is waiting when they arrive at the hotel, helping Steve with the wheelchair and quickly ushering them inside. They released a fake “source” yesterday that Tony would be staying at a different hotel on the other side of Manhattan, just to throw the media off the trail and make sure he didn’t get swarmed the moment they left the hospital.

 

“I’ll wait right here, sir,” the man in the black suit tells him once they get up to the room, taking his post outside of Tony’s room door.

 

“Thanks, uh, Buddy,” Tony lets Steve wheel him in, clambering out of the stupid wheelchair as soon as the door shuts behind them. He stares woefully at the mini fridge in the room, surely stocked with tiny liquor bottles that he’d happily down one after another until they were all empty in any other circumstance.

 

“Alright, you know the doctor’s orders. Lay down,” Steve instructs with a smile, kissing the top of Tony’s head and steering him towards the large bed in the room. “Why don’t you get yourself comfortable and pick out a movie or something? I can order some dinner up—”

 

“Steve,” Tony interrupts, wincing slightly as he sits down on the bed, not quite crawling under the covers yet. He’s been doing nothing but laying down for two weeks, and if standing didn’t take so much damn effort, he’d happily keep doing that. “I… I don’t think you should stay.”

 

Steve’s smile fades with uncertainty, searching Tony’s eyes to figure out if he means that or not. “You… want me to go?”

 

Tony presses his lips together and closes his eyes. He can’t be looking at Steve’s face when he says his next words. He knows he’ll chicken out under the weight of those baby blues. “Steve… I love you.”

 

After an extended pause, he feels the weight of the bed dip next to him, Steve still leaving about a foot of space between them. “I love you too… What’s this about, Tony?”

 

He sighs so deeply it makes his chest ache. “I love you, but I don’t think I can do this anymore.” He opens his eyes but still stares straight ahead, not looking over at Steve. “This has been hard for a while now, and I think we both know that.”

 

He can feel Steve staring at him. The man scoots closer. “Of course it has. We knew that going in. I know we haven’t been able to see each other as much recently, but—”

 

“But _what_ , Steve?” Tony rakes a hand through his hair. “What makes you think that’s going to change anytime soon? You’re the one who made me go in the first place. I could’ve stayed in New York with _you—_  with the team that I was happy with, because it was good for my career. So much for that, right?” he laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “Now I don’t even have that to hang on to, but I don’t have any fucking choice. And as if worrying about my baseball life wasn’t enough, now we know I have to fear for my _literal_ life every time I go outside! No one fucking deserves that, Steve, and especially not you. So I’m ending it.”

 

“I don’t get a say in this?” Steve asks, his voice raising. “No, Tony. You’re not ending this to try and— I don’t know— protect me? We need each other now more than ever—”

 

“No we don’t!” Tony bursts, finally looking up at Steve. The man’s staring at him with shock and sadness written across his face, hands helplessly reaching out to attempt to coax Tony back to him. “I’m the last thing you need, and you’re the last thing I need,” he spits angrily. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t be in a relationship like this that makes me so fucking scared about every aspect of my well-being and my partner’s. We tried okay? We tried for a long time and we did pretty good. Hell, it was even fun at first! Sneaking around, lying to the world, but that’s over now. Neither of us needs this. I should’ve never come out.”

 

Steve places a hand on his thigh and Tony shoves his arm away, getting to his feet. He ignores the ache in his chest and paces halfway across the room, needing to put the distance between them. Steve stands as well but doesn’t attempt to come any closer. “Tony… We shouldn’t have to be ashamed anymore. I know you didn’t want me to come out because you were scared for what it meant for both of us—”

 

“Does this not prove I was right to be?!” Tony practically screams, gesturing to himself. “What’s it going to take, Steve?! How many more assaults before you realize you can’t give the entire world the benefit of the doubt and realize that the _power of love_ can’t keep everything together?!”

 

“So, what? You just close yourself off even more? Get rid of me and all your friends and drown your sorrows in booze and anger at the world for not being accepting enough?” Steve is angry now, any kind of sadness quickly pusher aside. “You can’t just turn me away after all we’ve been through together—”

 

“It’s _over_ , Steve!” Tony yells. “Don’t make this any fucking harder and just _go_.”

 

“No!” Steve takes a step forward, standing his ground. “This will pass— We can _talk_ about this, Tony.”

 

“I don’t want to! Don’t you get it?! _I don’t want you in my life anymore,_ ” Acid trips off his tongue as he says it, burning his mouth on the way out.

 

Steve’s jaw tightens. “You don’t mean that,” he says softly.

 

Tony’s heart is racing now, his breaths shortening. He fights through it, no longer shying away from the confrontation but looking headlong into it, his stare hard and unwavering. “You think you saved me. Made my life _better_. For a few years there, I thought you did too. I’ve made some pretty bad decisions in my life, but being with you has been the worst. It ruined my fucking life, Steve.”

 

It’s a brutal blow, Tony knows it is. Hurting Steve is the only way he can possibly get him to leave. To walk away and save himself instead of falling off the ledge with Tony. The words cut deep and Tony can practically see the heartbreak. Steve’s expression immediately falls, releasing any pent up anger and frustration at the unfairness of their situation.

 

“Buddy!” Tony shouts, the door immediately opening. He probably had the handle turned as soon as they started the screaming match, just waiting for his cue. “Steve’s leaving. Now.”

 

“Tony, don’t do this,” Steve begs, immediately holding his arms out to show the bodyguard he doesn’t mean to fight. His eyes don’t leave Tony’s, pleading for a change of heart. The man wordlessly seizes both of Steve’s arms, holding them behind his back as he forcibly removes him from the room. Steve’s feet dig into the carpet, their masses about matched as far as level of muscle goes. “ _Please_ , Tony, we can talk about this. We said we were going to try! You promised we were going to get through this.”

 

Tony can’t bear to look at him any longer. He turns away as Steve is dragged out, the door slamming shut behind him. His heart is thudding painfully against his chest, the aching in his ribcage no longer imaginary. He tries to banish the look on Steve’s face out of his mind, but his masochistic brain keeps replaying that moment of rejection over and over again. He shuffles over to the bedside table and immediately takes double the dose of his pain medication. His eyes slide over to the fridge.

 

The next thing he knows, he’s laying on his back in bed, whisky still burning the back of his throat. His head lolls to the side, mind fuzzy as he tries to count the little empty bottles now lined up on the nightstand. It eases the pain somewhat, helps him not think about the worst self-inflicted wound he could add to the already impressive list of injuries.

 

Now is a time for healing.

  


 

 

January, 1999 

 

The cold weather makes Steve’s knee ache as he steps out of his building, hurriedly jogging to his car. Spring training may not start up for another few weeks, but a Captain’s job is never done. He has to fight against yawn after yawn tearing its way from his mouth, a restless night’s sleep catching up to him. He’d gotten too used to the quiet of upstate, spending his early months off with Bucky. The city welcomed him back with open arms and honking horns all night. There’s always a slight adjustment period, his spare bedroom at Bucky’s place always feeling a bit too quiet at first. He’s never been able to take sudden change very well.

 

He turns on the radio to hear the weather report for the day, needing to know if he’ll have to take a break halfway through his training day to dig his car out from the snow if he wants to have any hope of leaving.

 

He scrubs through channels as he drives, eventually catching the tail end of one weather report stating there won’t be any snow until early tomorrow morning. The news channel immediately shifts back to the main anchor, summarizing the main events that Steve now misses out on due to Bucky assuring him that _print media is dead_. Steve doesn’t care what kind of leaps and bounds technology seems to be making these days, he will always love his simple, crisp newspapers.

 

“One of our top stories this morning is the news that Tony Stark, the 28 year-old CEO of Stark Industries, has officially stepped down from the company, relinquishing all hold on the now multi-million dollar corporation. In the fall of ‘96, Stark had regained control of his family’s company after ending his career in Major League Baseball. In that short amount of time, he diversified the company’s interests beyond far more than making sports gear. Stark began investing in new branches supporting STEM research and design, becoming an immediate source for innovation in technology and clean energy sources. While there is no official ruling on who will be taking the helm of Stark Industries, it is rumored for COO, Virginia Potts to be promoted to President and CEO. Relatively unknown designer Riri Williams has been announced to be taking Stark’s secondary title of Executive Chief of Design, Stark himself announcing in his statement that he will still be a “consultant” for the company. This comes as a shock, especially with the opening of a bureau right here in New York being established a few short months ago—”

 

Steve turns off the radio, preferring the rest of his drive be in silence.

 

For the first few months following the painful break-up, Steve had avoided all mentions or signs of _Him_. His friends of course didn’t know the extent of their parting, but the whole team could sense something was off. Even Peter kept his mentions of his idol to a bare minimum after enough elbowing from Bruce whenever Steve was in the room. He turned his eye away from newspaper stands with headlines or magazine covers that had anything to do with Him. He went back to being ignorant of any and all reports in the baseball world, knowing He would be brought up at one point or another.

 

After enough time had passed, the switch was flipped. Steve went from trying to block out anything that could remind him of Tony at all costs to obsessively seeking out info on him.

 

The Knights won the 1996 World Series. Not giving the monumental victory a moment to breathe, Tony happily tore the attention back to himself and announced he would be leaving the ranks of Major League Baseball and taking over his company. On top of that, he revealed in a tell-all ESPN interview the rampant misuse of performance-enhancing drugs in the Majors, stating that the drug abuse is what drove him away, not his sustained injuries. This opened the floodgates for multiple investigations to weed out the steroid problem across the big leagues that is still ongoing. It left more holes than expected, giving plenty of opportunities for talented and honest Minor League players to have their chance.

 

Tony became a recluse for most of the following year, moving back to Malibu and quietly running Stark Industries from behind the scenes. Pepper quit her job as a manager for the Irons to become the public face for the rapidly expanding company. Steve was in the middle of his Tony-starved depressive mode, constantly scanning the papers for any kind of update. He tried calling, paging, emailing— anything to reach out to Tony to see how he was doing, but none of his attempts at contact were ever returned.

 

It didn’t take too long for Tony to return to his old habits, Steve just starting to crest the stage of _I’ve Moved On_ when, as always, Tony pulled him right back in. After a sufficient media drought of the megalomaniac genius, he came back in full force. While the company exponentially grew, so did Tony’s notoriety as he graced tabloids time and time again with his presence, drunk out of his mind, spotted at countless gay clubs without a care in the world. Stories leaked of him being admitted to conversion therapy or rehab centers. Even though he had left the baseball realm behind him, most people refused to let go. He was still used as an example, and while some of the world was starting to develop tolerance, there were still plenty that continued to rake him over the coals.

 

Steve thought that maybe he would find the courage to come out during this time. He thought that after the break-up, and after his wound had time to scab over, he would do it. Tony wasn’t around anymore to hold him back from making that decision for himself, so it would be easy, right?

 

A small part of him continued to hold back, though. The entire reason he had wanted to come out in the first place was because of Tony. Steve is a very private person; he has no reason to make his business known to the world. Who he loves or doesn’t love his private information he had only been willing to offer up in order to stand with Tony in solidarity. He was trying to _move on_. No matter how it affected his career, coming forward with his own truth will bring back a tie to Tony that will follow him for the rest of his life.

 

As he enters the last phases of being completely heart-broken, he no longer plugs his fingers in his ears and runs at the first mention of Tony’s name. He also doesn’t purposefully seek out information that he only knows will upset him further or send him back into a spiral of missing a man who no longer wanted him in his life. He sits at a happy medium of going about his life, occasionally hearing about what Tony is up to, and only moderately wanting to cry every time he’s reminded of the man’s impact on his own life and journey.

 

The casualties were limited. Very few of his close friends were even aware of the true nature of his and Tony’s relationship, making it easy to repress all emotion and feeling towards it. He’s had a decent past couple of Tony-free years. Soon enough, he might finally be completely over him.

 

He hopes.

 

Steve walks into the stadium, greeting a couple of the other players who had the same idea he had to come back a little early and make sure they’re not too out of shape before Natasha pummels them back into what she deems acceptable. There’s a lot of new faces now. Steve blocks out the feeling of sadness as he’s greeted by his teammates, old and new, who all have that same moment of recognition in their eyes.

 

“Rogers!” Natasha calls out to him just as he joins Thor at the bench press. “Hey, can I borrow you for a sec?”

 

He doesn’t pay the request much mind, following her out of the gym and down the slow curved pass to her office. “What’s up?”

 

“I just need you to look over a couple of things in my office with me. I’ve got a new training regiment to try out this season and wanted your opinion on it,” she answers dismissively, walking quickly and several feet ahead of Steve.

 

He elongates his strides to catch up with her, wondering what’s up with the urgency. “You don’t usually want my opinion on that kind of stuff. Is it really all that different?”

 

She doesn’t answer as they reach her door. She opens it for him and waves him inside. Confused, Steve steps in, eyes still trained on her. “Nat, what’s going on?”

 

Her eyes dart up, but don’t meet his, instead landing somewhere past his shoulder. He turns around, realizing that her office isn’t empty. Every last bit of air escapes his lungs. He feels like he’s been punched through his chest— Being punched through his chest would feel less painful than what he’s experiencing right now.

 

Standing off to the side, looking out of place and a little older than Steve remembers, is Tony. It’s the version of Tony that Steve has well established as Not His but Everyone Else’s. Expression indifferent, cold, almost disdainful as he stands there staring back at him, one dark eyebrow ever so slightly raised, not in interest, but in a challenge. His honey-colored eyes aren’t shining with mischief and brilliance, his perfect lips turned into a frown rather than a smile. Everyone Else’s Tony was wearing a three-piece suit that fit him perfectly, Steve accustomed to viewing the Real Tony who wore oil-stained rock band tees, cuffed jeans, and beat up Chuck Taylors. He supposes that’s a childish view, a memory of the very early stages of their courtship being rekindled in his mind. Steve looks back at those being the fondest times, when they had each other and nothing else had been there to threaten their bond.

 

Almost imperceptible smile lines now appear around his mouth and the crinkle at the edge of his eyes, another noticeable line between his eyebrows from all the furrowing he did while tinkering and inventing. Strands of premature grey shimmer in the light right around his temples, a stark contrast against the deep brown of his shorter-cut hair. His facial hair is a little more managed as well, cultivated into a sharp goatee that’s spotting the same salt-and-pepper treatment. It makes him look refined, although part of Steve wants to start his due diligence of firing back the old man jokes Tony used to throw at him so cavalier. His skin is nicely tanned as well, clearly coming off of some vacation to somewhere much sunnier than New York is in the winter months, the little freckles and sunspots on his nose and cheeks darkened and much more noticeable now. Steve wants to run his finger along them and watch his nose scrunch up in response beneath his touch, Tony’s laugh echoing clearly in his mind.

 

He has an air of maturity that goes even beyond his physical appearance. This is a man standing in front of him. Not that a very youthful, early-twenties Tony wasn’t a man in his own right. Steve watched him transition through what were meant to be his most formative years, full of change and mistakes and consequence and growth. The growing maturity was less noticeable when Steve was there to witness it, the development feeling more gradual and suspended in the way that time seemed to slow down whenever they were together. Now, after years apart and trying in vain to forget every plane of his face and curve of his body, the differences strike him with awe.

 

There’s a soft click behind him, Steve jerks out of his reverie to see the door closed behind him. He grips the handle and turns, the knob not budging an inch. “Natasha!” he calls, pounding his fist against the door as he jiggles the handle again in vain. “What are you doing?”

 

“I’ll let you out when you two are done talking things out!” Natasha calls back, not at all sounding apologetic as her voice fades away, already retreating.

 

“Nat!” he yells again, knowing she’s already gone. He hits the door once more before his head thuds against the wood, closing his eyes for a second to collect himself before he can turn around again.

 

“...I didn’t know she was going to lock you in here with me, to be fair.”

 

God, his _voice_. Hearing it again like this— so _close_ and so _real—_ it’s agonizing and wonderful all at once. Full of satire and warmth, it’s a familiar sound that Steve’s mind almost can’t process.

 

He turns, slowly, to face Tony again, taking him all in. He opens his mouth to speak and Steve holds up a hand, side-stepping towards a chair. “Just… Shut up. For a second.”

 

He can see what he thinks is Tony miming a zipper over his mouth in his periphery as he dazedly stumbles his way over to the opposite side of the small room that feels like it’s getting smaller every second. He sinks down into a chair, placing his head in both his hands. His fingers curl into his hair, tightening at the roots before releasing and tightening again. He repeats this motion a few times just to keep the feeling from leaving his fingers, the blindside taking him out of the moment.

 

Tony does a remarkable job of not saying anything while Steve processes this predicament. He lifts his head slightly, folding his hands against his mouth as he stares at a spot on Nat’s floor, not quite having the strength to stare directly at Tony like he’s some sort of personal sun. “You’re here,” he states obviously.

 

Further to Tony’s credit, he doesn’t reply with even a mildly scathing sarcastic remark. “I am,” he ratifies.

 

“Okay. Why?”

 

“A valid follow-up,” Tony commends. He moves a little closer, sitting casually on the edge of Natasha’s desk. Steve’s gaze can’t help but be drawn up to the motion of his leg swinging carelessly, right above the ground, giving yet another glimpse at the His Tony he remembers. “You’re quitting.”

 

Steve’s eyes betray him, darting up to Tony’s face in surprise. There’s a brief moment of eye contact, Tony’s eyes still devoid of any comfort Steve can recognize. He looks away again, brow furrowed in frustration. “So are you.”

 

“No, I _quit_. Past-tense. Already done.”

 

Steve squints at the semantics. “Well in that case, I’m not quitting. I’m _retiring_. There’s a difference.” Steve is turning forty-two this year. A majority of players don't even stick around for that long, so it was a well-expected announcement for quite some time now.

 

“Is there?” Tony hums. “Retiring just means quitting because you’re _old_ , right?”

 

“You’re insufferable,” the words irresponsibly fall from his lips, Steve’s fingers curling into fists where they rest on his knees.

 

“Some things never change,” Tony replies good-naturedly. When Steve raises his head once more, Tony is smiling at him, a hint of warmth sparking in his eyes. _Ah, there it is_.

 

“You dodged the question,” Steve accuses. “Why are you here? I’m assuming you didn’t come all this way to tell me something I announced publicly six months ago.”

 

Tony doesn’t beat around the bush, piercing Steve with his unwavering eye contact. “I came back to play one last season with you.”

 

Those words don’t make sense. “Very funny.”

 

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

 

He doesn’t. Steve narrows his eyes and can’t stay seated any longer, knee aching a little when he stands. “What the hell do you mean? You can’t be coming back— That doesn’t— Why would you—” A deja vu of anger sweeps over him, reminded of the first time he was blindsided by his peers with the sudden addition of Tony Stark to their team. “Did they seriously sign you again without telling me?” He stalks back to the door, having no intent to apologize to Natasha for breaking the lock off of it. He could destroy everything in this office and still not consider things even between them after she betrayed his trust _again_.

 

“Steve, stop,” Tony sighs, reaching out before thinking better of it. Steve drops his hand away from the door handle, turning to face Tony with arms defensively crossed over his chest. “I’m not signed; Janet wouldn’t do that to you. I wanted to ask you first.”

 

An almost hysterical laugh slips through, Steve in complete disbelief at this point. Maybe this entire thing is just some crazy dream. Nightmare, even. “You wanted. To ask me.” he repeats slowly.

 

“Yes,” Tony affirms. “I’m here to play only if you’ll have me. I’m asking for your blessing, so to speak.”

 

Steve has to raise his hands up again, wishing he could physically block Tony’s words from reaching him. “Jus— Hang on— This is too much to unpack right now,” he shakes his head in irritation. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“If it makes you feel any better—”

 

“Whatever you’re about to say, it doesn’t.”

 

Tony sighs, a little frustration leaking through his offhandedness. “You’re probably right about that. I just wanted to tell you that I’m still a little surprised too. I’ve always been pretty impulsive though, huh?” he tries to smile, but it quickly fades when it goes unreciprocated. “I didn’t plan on playing baseball ever again, even if I wasn’t barred from being drafted to a team for the remainder of my broken contract with the Knights. But then I… I heard you were retiring and that this would be your last season playing. Something… I don’t know, something told me it was time to come back and make things right.”

 

The fresh wave of anger and hurt ambushes Steve, heat flaring up inside of him and licking painfully at old wounds. “ _Now_ you want to make things right?” he asks, a biting ferocity sharpening his tone. “After you forced me away and refused to speak to me for the past three years?”

 

“I had to, Steve,” Tony tries to reason with him, stepping closer. Steve shrinks against the wall, halting Tony in his tracks. “We needed to end things before they could get any worse—”

 

“ _You_ did. _You_ needed to end things before they could get any worse. Nothing ever changed for me,” He interrupts bitterly. “I loved you. I was willing to fight for us and you were the one who made that decision. I didn’t want that.”

 

Tony opens his mouth and immediately clamps it shut.  “You’re right,” he changes his course. “But you were never going to make that decision. I deserve to be the bad guy here; I was the one who pulled the trigger. I needed to face my own demons instead of push them on everyone else.”

 

Steve sighs, wiping a hand down his face. “There aren’t bad guys and good guys in this situation. You just did what you thought was right. Doesn’t mean you weren’t a total _dick_ about it.” He feels childish saying it, but all his anger and frustration since their break up is seeping out of every pore. “You could’ve been killed that night, Tony. We’re lucky you weren’t. When I saw you laying there—” his voice cracks, betraying him. He closes his eyes, refusing to cry right now. He’s cried enough over Tony. “I spent those weeks in the hospital with you, so grateful that I hadn’t lost you, and then you immediately cut me off. Tell me how that was meant to help me?”

 

Tony’s steadfast gaze finally concedes, falling in shame to the floor. “I appreciated everything you did for me, Steve. All of it. Since the beginning. I couldn’t keep taking from you. You deserved your own life, not one spent worrying about me.”

 

Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes up towards the ceiling. “This might be surprising to hear, but breaking up with me and disappearing for a while did _not_ make me not worry about you any less. You don’t get to just remove yourself from someone’s life and expect them to forget everything.”

 

Tony falls silent. The wood of Natasha’s table creaks slightly as he sinks back down onto it. His hand is twitching, fingers dancing around in agitation. The tick used to make Steve smile, seeing Tony attempting to form words almost tangibly, hands searching out some way to construct them and understand them better. He wants to reach out and hold them, quell their anxiety. He stays put.

 

“Did you face them?” Steve asks after the silence stretches on and the door remains locked. Tony stares at him with uncertainty, the two of them finally able to look at each other in this moment of impasse. “Your demons.”

 

Tony swallows. “Working on it. I’ve been sober for thirty-six days now. I know that’s not a lot but… It’s my longest streak yet.”

 

“That’s great, Tony,” Steve says, and he means it. Tony looks hopeful when he says it, even if he didn’t say it to seek out approval. “It is, really.”

 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, searching Steve’s face for more. “I meant what I said before, about wanting to fix things. Make ‘em right. Running the company the past few years has been… good. It’s a good change of pace. I got to invest my time and money into more than the empire Dad built for me, I had responsibilities and more to offer. But… it wasn’t my passion like I thought. I wasn’t sure how much longer I wanted to be doing it, and there’s plenty of other people out there who are more deserving of manning that ship. I knew I’d be passing it off slowly but surely, but then last fall when I heard this was going to be your last season… It was the last push I needed.”

 

Tony stands up and walks towards Steve, scooping up a razor thin letter opener from Natasha’s desk. For a fleeting moment, he wonders if Tony is going to try and stab him, or worse, kiss him, but he just gestures for Steve to step aside. Steve moves away from the door, watching Tony get to his knees and start picking the lock with the letter opener.

 

Within a few seconds of Steve trying not to stare at the pink tip of Tony’s tongue as it stuck out between his teeth in concentration, there’s a little _schnick_ , and the door is unlocked. Tony stands up, wiping some invisible dust from his knees.

 

“You couldn’t have done that before?” Steve asks dryly, not making a move towards the door yet.

 

Tony shrugs, that cocky little grin ghosting across his lips, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it style. “I needed you to at least hear me out. And who knows where the hell Tasha went off to.”

 

“Probably to go laugh at us upstairs from Janet’s office,” Steve hypothesizes, making Tony laugh. God, he missed the sound of his laugh. He missed everything about him.

 

“Probably,” Tony agrees, his eyes shining as he stares down at the floor. His expression sobers, lifting his chin to look at Steve. “I know you may not want me on the team, especially after what I did, but I came back to try and fix things. I’ll still try and do that, even if we’re not playing ball together but… I don’t know,” he gets a funny smile on his face, making Steve feel like he’s part of some in-joke. “It feels right for us to be on the same team again.”

 

“I…” Steve doesn’t know what to say. Tony is genuinely asking permission to come back, seemingly with the best intentions for once. He looks healthy, and underneath all the emotional turmoil clouding up between them, he looks _happy_. “I’ll have to think about it.”

 

Tony nods. “Of course. I know I don’t deserve that kind of forgiveness from you, but… You always did give me better than I deserved. I loved that about you.”

 

He turns away to open the door, Steve grateful that he misses the visible pain on his face upon hearing that. Tony lets the door swing open but doesn’t leave, looking back to Steve expectantly as he steps aside. “After you,” Steve waves at the door.

 

“Nope,” Tony denies. “I’m not walking away from you anymore, Steve.”

 

His sincerity strikes Steve to his core, feeling that familiar tug deep in his chest that he’s never felt about anyone before Tony, and hasn’t felt about anyone else after. He nods and walks out of the office, starting down the hallway without looking back. He hears Tony’s fading footsteps in the opposite direction. Steve doesn’t go back to the gym, but heads straight for Janet’s office. Maybe he didn’t need as much time to make up his mind as he thought.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe he’s _actually_ here.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Like, really, actually, _for real really here_!”

 

“He sure is, Peter.”

 

“I’m about to play a _real_ game with Tony Stark.”

 

“You’re about to _miss_ a real game with Tony Stark if you don’t get out there, kid,” Tony says from behind them.

 

Peter bumps into Steve in surprise, quickly righting himself, throwing an apologetic look up at his Captain before looking back to Tony. “S-Sorry, Mr. Stark!”

 

“You’re calling the shots today, Pete. Make sure to give us that strong lead I know you can. I want the other team _ragged_ by the time it’s my turn, got it?”

 

His head bobs fiercely. “Yes, Mr. Stark! I won’t let you down!” He almost drops his glove as he fumbles it out of his locker and quickly runs out to the tunnel, Natasha’s voice already echoing down towards the locker room. _Where the hell is Parker?_

 

Steve chuckles he closes his locker. “You’ve got to stop scaring him like that. You’re going to give the kid a heart attack one of these days.”

 

Tony grins at him as he opens the door right next to Steve’s, taking his baseball cap off the hook and placing it atop his head to complete the look. “But it’s so much fun! How do I look?” He holds his arms out and does a little spin.

 

It’s the first time he’s been back in full official uniform. The greys, reds, and whites look good on him, and Steve has to hold back from telling him just _how good_ he looks. “Like an Avenger.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes at the teasing, grabbing his own glove off his shelf before kicking the door shut. “See you out there, Captain.”

 

“See you…” Steve echoes, watching him go. He pats Bruce on the arm on his way to the tunnel, the two immediately striking up some kind of conversation that gets lost in all the locker room noise as they walk away.

 

While there’s really only a handful of players left since Tony was last a part of the team— himself, Thor, Bruce, and Clint— The entire team has welcomed him back with open arms. Most of the controversy faded not long after Tony left the Knights, but they were all prepared for it to come back tenfold after today. Somehow (aka Janet’s expertise), they’ve been able to keep Tony being back on the team a secret from the media. Today is their first televised friendly, and the cat will be out of the bag once Tony is seen in the dugout, eventually taking center stage once he goes in as Peter’s relief.

 

People still may not be ready to accept Tony for who he is, but his teammates are hellbent on protecting him this time around. According to Janet, all publicity is good publicity if you know how to use it. Her top priority is still Tony’s safety, but both he and Steve know she’s just doing her job when she talks about them like they’re assets. With it being Steve’s last season, and Tony’s heroic comeback, it’s going to be a very Avengers’ focused season in the Triple-A, which is exactly what they want.

 

She’s proven right as they transition from Spring Training into the real season, the Avengers ticket sales are through the roof every game. The response is still extremely mixed, most fan’s overwhelmingly positive about Tony’s grandiose return to the sport, while there are others who are still calling for a boycott that will never happen. The team stands as a united front alongside their pitcher.

 

Tony’s short stint in the Majors did wonders for him as a player. He was always phenomenal, but as Steve watches him day after day, he realizes that Carol and the competitiveness of the Major League really has brought out the best in him as a player. His communication with the rest of the team is better, he’s more receptive and less confrontational. Tony would hate hearing it from him, but Steve really does view him as a model sportsman now.

 

The biggest obstacle is navigating their relationship. Tony established early on that he and Steve should try to be friends, a step they somewhat skipped over in the initial whirlwind of their relationship. They had been _friendly_ , yes, but that mutual pursuit of attraction was birthed from their contempt of one another.

 

A four year relationship doesn’t just go away overnight. Steve constantly reminds himself that Tony’s smiles are no longer for him. His touches are fleeting and innocent, not leading to anything more than a bit of friendly contact. He can sense Tony still has his guard up, whether it’s to protect his own heart or just keep Steve safe from the chaos there. He’s still so painfully, undeniably, without a doubt, hung up on Tony. He didn’t use their time apart to move on. He’s just as much in love with Tony as he was the day he turned up on his doorstep on Christmas Eve of ‘92, damp with snow and clutching a very meaningful gift in his hands.

 

Steve surrenders his wants to Tony’s needs, stepping aside to allow the man to flourish beside him, as equal partners and friends in this. The season progresses with upwards momentum, the months passing by with win after win. Steve doesn’t play every game, even with it being his last season. No reason to keep pushing himself with his bad knee. He plays when he can and is grateful for the opportunity and support of the team and his fans. He feels the wall between him and his love for the sport start to come down again, Tony’s presence helping mend that relationship. Ever since the reaction to Tony’s coming out years ago, Steve felt confused and misled about the honorable, principled sport he’s centered his entire life around. It was a tough blow to shoulder, that removal of the rose-colored lens, but now he’s better for it, acknowledging that it’s an individual’s values that make the person.

 

He shelves the idea of being a lover for Tony (despite the few _Almost Moments_ they experience when left alone together for too long), instead taking on the role of his main support in his ongoing struggle with alcoholism. There are backslides, plenty of them, each one getting worse than the last. He and Tony argue about it, easily going from screaming matches to Tony crumbling and sobbing in his arms. He along with their other friends get Tony the help he needs, going to AA with him, aiding him with the withdrawals, standing there every time to help him back to his feet when he falls. Watching his battle against becoming a man he always despised, Steve realizes that Tony is one of the strongest people he knows, even when he feels like the weakest.

 

It all pays off in the end. The season comes to a close, The Avengers yet again returning to the National Championship Game in the post-season. Tony is at the peak of his game, over two months sober, setting records with his pitching. He no longer hides from the world, announcing himself proudly to say _“Look at me!”_ , not because he’s overcompensating for any of his own inadequacies, but because he’s _finally_ proud of the person he’s become.

 

Steve is proud too. Proud of his friend. Proud of his love. Overwhelmingly proud as he’s surrounded by his triumphant teammates, confetti raining down around them in celebration of another Championship win to their name. Steve plays the entire game, his knee not aching even once. He gets choked up, crying openly as his team surrounds him, rejoicing for their Captain’s last run. Twenty-seven years of his life he’s given to pouring his heart and soul into the sport, at the expense of his own body at times. It’s the perfect end to a long and illustrious career. Almost.

 

Steve pushes his way through the crowd, wildly searching for Tony’s familiar dark head of hair in the chaos. He’s numb to the congratulations shouted at him and the pats on the back, honed in on a single target now.

 

“Steve!” He hears Tony call out through the crowd, spinning around wildly to try and see him. He can’t tell exactly where the voice is coming from.

 

“Tony!” he calls out in return, getting lost in the throng of people. There’s a sudden break in the crowd, Steve’s eyes finally landing on him.

 

Tony’s smile is brighter than the sun. His eyes are a burning amber, face flushed with exertion and hysteria. Tear tracks shine on his cheeks, the rest of his skin shining with sweat, hair pushed back and sticking out in wild waves finally freed from underneath his hat. His jersey is untucked and hanging open, pants stained with red dirt and grass. He’s beautiful. Chaotic and brazen energy thrumming around him like something tangible, unable to hide his brilliance even if he tried. He runs towards Steve, Steve meeting him half-way.

 

Their bodies collide solidly into one another, locked in an embrace that almost takes them both to the ground. Steve lifts him off the ground and spins around, Tony’s warm breath and laugh against his ear sending his heart up into his throat. He sets Tony down, not releasing him, but moving his arms lower to lock firmly around his waist, pulling Tony against him.

 

“Steve, what are you doing?” His eyes widen and his body tenses with alarm as Steve brings a hand up to cup his face. Tony’s hands curl to fists against his chest, clutching the fabric of his jersey and warring against whether he wants to pull him closer or keep him at bay.

 

Steve is breathless, the rest of the world fading away as he locks his eyes on Tony and only Tony. “What I should’ve done six years ago,” he answers before pulling Tony against him, their mouths melding against one another’s in long-awaited reconciliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap. I'm not crying, you're crying. The story isn't even technically over, but I am STUPIDLY EMOTIONAL about the last official chapter. While I think this is a perfectly good end to Steve and Tony's story, I'm too much for a sucker for a flashforward epilogue to not add one on to this story.
> 
> I don't even know what to say other than thank you for reading and giving feedback. I love this story SO MUCH and I've never been so inspired or written so much content that I love for a pairing I love as much as Stony. I'll see you guys soon for the epilogue and am so happy any of you have given this niche little fic a chance. <333


	8. Earned Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys so much <3 Enjoy the epilogue.

December, 2002 

 

“Gabe, how is it after all these years you still don’t know how to do your tie right?”

 

“Shut up, Jim. How about you lay off the whiskey and save some for after the ceremony?”

 

“Quit your griping, you two. Jacques, help the man with his tie, would ya?”

 

Steve smiles to himself in the en suite bathroom, finishing combing his hair into place as he listens to his old friends fuss at each other a room away. He stares at his reflection, his reflection staring back. There’s something about wearing a tailored tuxedo that calls for examining the rest of him, leaning closer as he pokes around the skin of his face. The lines around his nose and eyes that used to disappear when he wasn’t smiling now stubbornly remaining put, as subtle as the creases are. He’s kept in shape, thankfully, still filling out the fitted suit in a way that doesn’t make him feel self-conscious. He looks old, but still has a youthful glow about him when he thinks about what he’s here for. His excitement is fitting for the occasion.

 

He makes sure his silver tie is as straight as humanly possible before exiting to avoid being raked over the coals by Morita. Steve is happy to see them all again, his old baseball buddies all lounging around the room, shooting the shit and teasing each other like the good old days. The Howling Commandos have gotten old too, just another reminder that Steve hasn’t always been the best at keeping in touch with all of them over the years. _Weddings and funerals_ , Steve thinks morosely, the last time having seen them all together in one place like this being at Dugan’s funeral four years ago. It’s a comfort to see that no matter the distance or time, as soon as they’re all back in one place together they’re able to fall into the same habits from years prior.

 

The door to the hallway swings open to admit Bucky, joining them in the lounge that the Groom’s party have all been sequestered away to in the time leading up to the big event. Bucky looks dashing in his own tux, not usually one for going the extra mile for how he looks on the surface. Steve himself only started putting those kinds of efforts into his appearance over the past few years because of Tony’s meticulous influence. Bucky’s beard is carefully trimmed, hair still long but tucked behind his ears and away from his face, dark locks resting against the tops of his shoulders.

 

Bucky wolf whistles at the group, grinning as he sidles up next to Steve by the mini bar. “Well don’t you guys clean up nice?” He asks teasingly, looking Steve over and straightening his boutonnière. “You nervous?”

 

Steve scoffs, letting Bucky fiddle with the little flower pinned to his lapel that was already perfectly straight _thankyouverymuch_. “What do I have to be nervous about?”

 

“I dunno, tripping on your way up the aisle? Remember what happened at graduation?” Bucky grins at him, making sure he’s loud enough for the others to overhear. Fucker.

 

Steve groans, batting his hand away from his suit jacket. “You love bringing up embarrassing things from high school, you really do.”

 

“I wanna hear about this!” Falsworth crows, immediately jumping up.

 

“Me too. Never get enough of embarrassing childhood Steve Rogers stories,” Morita snickers.

 

Steve throws his hands up. “You guys talk about me all you want as long as I’m not around to hear it. I’m gonna take a walk before the ceremony.”

 

“Better come back here quick, we can’t get the show on the road without you!” Bucky calls after him teasingly as he heads for the door.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just getting some air,” Steve waves them off, slipping out into the hallway.

 

The venue is gorgeous. A colonial style mansion residing on expansive farm land with an attached plant sanctuary. The greenhouse is huge, overflowing with different regional plants sectioned off in little alcoves around the main dome that’s been cleared out to host things like weddings and other events. It’s the dead of Upstate Winter, snow still falling outside in blurry flakes, the trees of the surrounding wood line of the estate covered in thick layers of frost. It’s almost disorienting walking around inside with so much beautiful, flourishing plant life only to look out and see fields of white through the frosted glass panes. The choice is elegant yet charming all at once, nothing too fancy, too predictable, or too boring to suit the couple’s needs.

 

He does a short lap around the first floor of the house, peeking out the windows to see people arriving and being ushered to the main greenhouse for the ceremony. It’s not an enormous amount of people, but there’s still a significant number of guests in attendance. Steve checks his watch, just a few minutes left until the ball has to get rolling. He makes his way back towards the hallway where the Groomsmen were split off from the rest of the wedding party when he hears creaking steps from behind him.

 

Tony takes his breath away. Seeing him in an immaculate suit is nothing new for Steve, but there’s something exceptionally handsome about him right now as he looks down at him from the first landing, leaning against the wooden railing. His suit is jet black, vest and tie a rich crimson and contrasting nicely with the crisp white shirt and white rose pinned to his lapel. Maybe it’s the context of the day that stirs up the butterflies in Steve’s stomach, but all he knows is that he can’t take his eyes off of him.

 

“Hey stranger,” he greets, running a hand through his hair. It’s perfectly messy but coiffed all at once, pushed back from his forehead and looking soft to the touch. He’s got a cigarette box in his hand, passing it from one palm to the other. “I was just sneaking outside for a smoke, care to join me?”

 

Steve can’t resist the natural pull, ascending up a few steps to meet Tony half-way. He stops two steps below the first landing so the two are matched for height, staring into dark chocolate eyes. “Cutting it pretty close, aren’t you?”

 

Tony shrugs one shoulder, popping a cigarette out of the box and placing it carefully between his lips. “Don’t I always?”

 

“Oh my god, _there_ you are,” Janet groans from the stairs above, tromping her way down to grab Tony by the elbow. “It’s starting any minute, we have to get down there— Can you two save the teenage flirting for _after_ the wedding?”

 

Tony doesn’t take his eyes of Steve’s when he addresses her, lips curling attractively around the cigarette in his mouth. “No time like the present, Jan.”

 

Steve has no time to linger on how despite being _far_ from a teenager, Tony still manages to make him feel as giddy as one. Janet smiles at him sweetly as she passes by him with Tony in tow, tugging him down the rest of the stairs. More footsteps come from above as the rest of their side of the wedding party comes down.

 

Clint’s eyes dart from Tony to Steve suspiciously as he follows the troops. “Hey, isn’t it bad luck for you guys to see each other before the wedding or something?”

 

“Pretty sure that doesn’t apply to _us_ , dumbass,” Tony calls over his shoulder as he disappears around the corner.

 

Steve figures that’s his cue to return to his side of the ensemble, and sure enough as he walks down the hallway towards the Groomsmen’s room, they’re all filing out of it and heading towards the greenhouse. Bucky grins at him and jerks his chin. _Come on, then._ He smiles and catches up to them, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders as they walk to their side of the doorway and wait.

 

On top of being in the wedding party, Janet also meticulously planned the event down to the very beat. They all line up in their respective standing order, Steve able to see Tony and the rest of the men and women dressed in red across the greenhouse. As the piano music starts from inside, the doors open, and the two sides of the party meet slowly, one by one, pairing up and walking up the aisle together before lining up at the front of the room before all the guests. He watches as Tony walks towards him, throwing him a quick wink before turning away, striding up the aisle next to Morita.

 

Steve turns to his best friend and smiles. “You ready?” They had seen each other’s lowest lows and highest highs, and it feels right that Steve gets to stand next to his brother who’s never been happier than he is now, and see him marry someone he loves.

 

“Always,” Bucky grins at him and gives a nod.

 

Steve steps forward when it’s time for him to take his own walk up the aisle next to Clint. The two best men are the last to go, one for the groom, and one for the bride.

 

The music swells and all the guests get to their feet, turning to the entryway of the greenhouse. Bucky steps into the center of the aisle in his grey suit, flashing one last, private smile to Steve before holding his arm out.

 

Natasha looks beautiful in her wedding dress. She’s always been the type of woman that looked stunning even covered in sweat and dirt, hair matted and tucked underneath a baseball cap. Seeing her now, wearing a bit of makeup, fiery locks curled into perfect waves that go mid-way down her back, wearing an elegant and simple white dress with lace sleeves and a long train— She’s stunning. There’s no other word for it.

 

Neither of them have parents to give them away. It might be common to have a close friend or relative take the place of a parent to walk them down the aisle, but in the end, they had no desire to be passed off to the other by someone else. They were continuing forward in their relationship the way they came into it and the way they tackled everything in life: together.

 

They arrive at the front of the room, dropping their linked arms to instead face each other, clasping each other’s hands. Clint is already weeping openly, holding a tissue up to his face to muffle the quiet sobs. Tony rubs his back comfortingly, Carol standing behind him and reaching around to do the same while clearly trying to hold back laughter. From where he’s standing, Steve isn’t able to fully see Bucky’s face, but he can tell by the body language alone that he’s moved to tears as well.

 

By the end of the vows, everyone in the room is a little misty-eyed. Even Steve, who doesn’t consider himself the most empathetic person in the world is having difficulty holding back his tears with the boys all sniffling behind him. Natasha may be the only one not even close to shedding a tear, poking fun at the fact that Bucky hasn’t been able to stop the quiet and steady flow of tears since the moment he saw her.

 

Steve is present in the moment, undeniably overjoyed for two of his best friends getting married, but he can’t help but let his eyes slide past them to where Tony is standing on the other side of the altar. They catch each other’s eyes more than once, sharing small and knowing smiles together. Tears are shining in Tony’s bright, honey-colored eyes, something he’ll surely blame on Barton later.

 

The ceremony itself is kept short and sweet, everyone bursting into raucous cheers and hollers as the two share a kiss, Natasha grabbing Bucky by the lapels to drag him closer, the man happily falling into it. As all their guests head back to the main house for food and dance and drink, Natasha rushes them through the photo process, wanting it over and done with as soon as possible. There’s no complaints from anyone else (except maybe Pepper and Janet), but the usually grueling process is alleviated slightly by Bucky’s idea to have Steve take some shots with his Polaroid. He walks around and grabs snapshots of the scenery around them, capturing candids of the wedding party that Nat and Buck will probably cherish more than the “official” photos taken by the photographer. He takes one particular shot of Tony standing off to the side by himself, framed by large ferns and softly backlit against the windows, looking at the newly weds with a fond gaze. Steve will have to keep that one for himself.

 

Tony catches him staring and meets him with a very purposeful gaze, tilting his head to the side slightly as his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips. Steve arches an eyebrow at him, Tony matching it and nodding his head back towards the house. That look alone is almost enough to make Steve go weak in the knees, and not because of his worn out ACL.

 

As the rest of the wedding party starts to make their way towards the reception, Steve breaks off with some flippant excuses about going to grab more film. Tony goes with the group, chatting casually with Janet but giving Steve a very pointed look before he disappears around a corner.

 

Steve wanders around in the house, peeking into unlocked doors to find unoccupied bedrooms or bathrooms, trying to find a good candidate for their little tryst. He sneaks upstairs, listening for wedding guests passing by who all seem to be on the first floor, not wandering far from the ballroom where the reception is being held. He hears the sound of hasted footsteps and a door closing from a few feet away, quickly following the sound.

 

“Tony?” He whispers down the hallway, poking his head into another few rooms. He reaches for a doorknob when it suddenly swings away for him, an arm shooting out and seizing him by the tie to drag him into the room.

 

Too impatient to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he blindly gropes at Tony’s front to attempt to undress him. He’s got a head start on Steve, suit jacket and tie already removed, Tony’s own hands quickly going to work on ridding Steve of his clothes as well. It’s scary how good he is at undressing Steve even when blind, but he supposes they both have plenty of practice.

 

He leans down to let Tony loosen his tie and yank it off over the top of his head, mouths messily clashing as Steve drags him into a kiss if only to slow his frantic lover. He drops his hands to Tony’s belt, slowly undoing it and dragging it out of the loops, his hand teasing along the seam of his zipper where he can feel Tony’s hardness underneath.

 

An impatient whine rumbles in the back of Tony’s throat at Steve slowing the momentum, anxious hands removing Steve of his suit jacket and immediately flying to the rest of the buttons. “We should- make this- quick-” Tony mumbles between kisses. “Someone- will notice- we’re gone-”

 

“We shouldn’t be doing this at all,” Steve points out as he hypocritically pulls away to shuck off his button up and undershirt.

 

“You know weddings make me horny,” Tony says, hands immediately searching along the planes of Steve’s exposed chest before dropping down to rub the palm of his hand over his crotch.

 

“Everything makes you horny,” Steve huffs in amusement, bracing himself against the wall. He finally gets a good look at the dark room— closet is a better word for it. It looks like some kind of storage room, some cabinets in the corner along with a large metal rack full of cleaning supplies against one wall. “You know there’s plenty of rooms with beds right?”

 

He can see the white of Tony’s teeth as he grins at him. “But fucking you in a broom closet sounds so much more appealing.”

 

The words go straight to Steve’s groin and he reaches out to grab Tony, hands sliding down his flanks. His waist is accentuated with the vest still securely buttoned up over his torso, Steve able to see the subtle contour of his frame as his eyes further adjust. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he notes, standing there in just his dress pants, socks, and shoes, and feeling much more naked than he should be.

 

“I know,” Tony fishes something out of his pocket. Steve hears the uncapping of the bottle. “Turn around.”

 

Steve can’t even complain that there’s no room for foreplay, already impossibly hard beneath his trousers as he does as he’s told. He spreads his legs slightly, leaning against the metal rack as he feels one of Tony’s hands slide over the hard line of his cock over his pants. He lets out a breathy moan as Tony undoes his fly for him and pushes his pants and underwear down around his thighs. He bends forward, back arching already as he feels slicked up fingers tease between his legs, sliding from his balls up over his ass, barely ghosting along where he wants them most.

 

Tony wasn’t joking that this needed to be quick. He slides one finger into Steve, giving him almost no time to adjust before a second one is joining it. He tucks his face into his arm to muffle his groans, cock bobbing helplessly in front of him as he gently rocks his hips back to help Tony loosen him up. The clothing bunched up over his knees prevents him from spreading his legs even further, just another lewd reminder of their impatience. He looks back over his shoulder, shuddering at the sight behind him. Tony looks powerful like this, still dressed with his pants undone and pushed down just enough for his erection to be freed, pumping himself slowly with one lubed up hand while the other takes Steve apart. His pupils blown are out in the darkness, brow drawn together in concentration with just a few strands of hair finding their way down over his forehead. The implications of their current positions are filthy and a complete and utter turn-on.

 

He’s practically begging by the time Tony begins to stretch him with three digits, doing his best to keep his voice low as something tells him these walls aren’t exactly thin. He can feel the slight vibrations in the floor from the music coming from down below. The metal rack Steve is holding onto rattles as he grips it tighter, unable to stop the moan that slips free once Tony _finally_ pushes inside of him. He’s missed the feeling of the man inside of him, realizing he was just as needy for this as Tony.

 

It’s quick and rushed, but no less pleasurable because of it. Their circumstance is only fuel for their passion, Steve letting Tony yank his head back by his hair so he can hear those satisfying sounds freely pouring out of his mouth. Tony fucks him at a relentless pace, never once faltering in his rhythm or dragging things out. Steve is a goner as soon as Tony reaches around to pull him off. He knows all the right ways to bring him to climax, rubbing his thumb along his head and slit, stroking and twisting his shaft in the optimal motions that has Steve seeing stars behind his eyes. Coupled with the sensation of Tony penetrating him from behind, pulling out less and less until he’s practically just _grinding_ into his prostate, it’s all too much to try and hold back. His orgasm hits him like a freight train, still throbbing in Tony’s hand as he struggles to keep himself standing.

 

Unforgiving, Tony continues to piston into him, chasing after his own climax. Steve lifts a knee to support himself against one of the lower shelves of the rack, hearing it groan in protest as he puts more of his weight onto it, body jerking forward with every one of Tony’s thrusts. He twists around the best he can, not as flexible as he used to be, but flexible enough to grab Tony by his shirt and drag him closer. He covers Steve’s back with his body, wrapping both of his arms around him to keep them locked impossibly close together. The angle is perfect now, Tony swearing dirty promises against Steve’s ear as their panting intermingles. The oversensitivity makes him dizzy, his body instinctually tightening up at the intrusion from behind. That’s all it takes for Tony to finally crest over that edge, his teeth sinking into the back of Steve’s neck to muffle his cries of pleasure, hips still jackhammering into him to ride out his orgasm. If Steve were any younger, he’d probably be getting hard again already. His refractory period just isn’t what it used to be, which doesn’t bother him aside from the fact that his much younger partner tends to bounce back rather quickly. Wearing Tony out is no small feat, and one that Steve finds plenty of pleasure in when he takes up the challenge.

 

They clean themselves up in a bit of a daze, both of them needing some recovery time after such an intense session. They fumble their way through the darkness to leave no trace of their little romp, Tony helping Steve redress and make sure nothing is on inside out. Tony does up both their ties himself no problem, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s lips before he cracks the door open and pokes his head out to make sure the coast is clear for them to sneak back to the reception.

 

They’re met with knowing looks from specifically Pepper and Carol when they return, both of them doing their best to smooth out their suits and look as unruffled as possible. “Sure am parched. I’m gonna grab something to drink,” Tony clears his throat, running a hand through his obvious sex hair.

 

“I’ll join you in a bit. I think I owe Nat a dance,” he smiles, allowing his boyfriend to part from his side and put a little space between them. Hopefully the less perceptive guests won’t have noticed their joint disappearance.

 

The reception is in full swing at this point, people either seated at the small round tables and chatting over food, or letting loose on the dance floor. He has to scan the room to finally spot the lovely couple as they’re doing their due diligence, going around and talking to family and friends to thank them for coming. Steve strides across the room and places a hand on his best friend’s back, smiling apologetically.

 

“Mind if I steal your bride for a moment?” Steve asks just as the music transitions back to something a little slower and thankfully more manageable for Steve to attempt to dance to than the upbeat song playing before.

 

“Considering we’ve got the rest of our lives, please do,” Bucky grins and is able to doge Natasha’s elbow without even looking. “Love you, dearest,” he drawls, kissing her on the cheek.

 

“Mmhm,” Natasha rolls her eyes but accepts it before looping her arm through Steve’s and walking back towards the dance floor. “Thanks for saving me back there. James is much better at the… small talk,” she sighs, suppressing a shudder.

 

“I think you were doing okay,” Steve places his hand on a comfortable position around her waist, taking her other hand in his. He’s never been a big dancer, but Natasha seems to know what she’s doing and is probably able to make his stepping in a circle look a lot more impressive than it is.

 

Her eyes fall down to his chest suddenly, brow knitting in scrutinization before her lips slowly curve into a smile, green eyes sparkling with mirth. “Really, Steve? A quickie at my wedding?”

 

He does his best to keep his composure, continuing their little circle and pretending to find something glittery on Natasha’s sleeve very eye-catching. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Yeah?” Natasha arches an eyebrow and grabs his tie, waving it in front of his face in a flash of unexpected scarlet. “If I turn around and look at Tony is he going to be wearing your tie? You two just decided to sneak off somewhere to, what, switch up your wardrobe a bit?”

 

Steve’s eyes not so subtly cut over to the other side of the room where Tony is standing with Janet and some of the other bridesmaids, his tie now a silver and no longer matching the colors of their deep red dresses, instead now looking like he belonged on the groom’s side of the stage during the ceremony.

 

She’s smirking at him when his sheepish gaze returns to her, feeling the back of his neck flush to match the shade of his new accessory. Natasha laughs at him, throwing her head back. “Relax, I’m not scolding you. I’m actually impressed. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

 

“I’m forty-five, I’m not dead,” Steve huffs under his breath.

 

“At least you can keep up with him,” she sighs playfully as Steve spins her around if only to not be faced with the suggestive smirk for too long.

 

“You know, I really should thank you two,” she says thoughtfully after another minute of subdued swaying back and forth. “If it weren’t for you guys, Bucky and I might not be together.”

 

Steve furrows his brow, his gaze immediately gravitating back to wherever his other half is. He’s surprised to see Tony and Bucky talking casually to each other, both of them watching Steve and Natasha. Steve shoots them a quick smile, Bucky raising his hand in a small wave and Tony flashing a wink. “How so?”

 

“Christmas back in ‘92?” She reminds him. Steve immediately feels a warm rush of fondness at the memory of him and Tony finally figuring it all out after years of misunderstandings and ill-aimed animus. “You and Bucky were both supposed to come to Christmas at the Bartons, but _someone_ wasn’t able to make it thanks to being snuggled up with their secret lover.”

 

He ignores the jab, mostly because he has absolutely zero regrets about how that holiday worked out for him. “I think you should be thanking the snowstorm for that, not us.”

 

Natasha shrugs. “Maybe. It was kind of awkward at first, being there with a married couple, their kids, and then one of my players’ best friend’s who I’d only really heard of, but after spending more time with him… I don’t know, he really charmed me that day,” she smiles wistfully, her own gaze drawn back to where their significant others were huddled together, conspiring over god-knows-what. “Things didn’t really start to turn for us until that night you and Tony had that big fight though, remember? He drove off upstate like a lunatic and Bucky happened to find him that night to bring him home. Since he was already in the city he decided to surprise me and stop by at my place that night and… well, the rest is history,” she laughs.

 

Steve knew around the time that Natasha and Bucky started spending more quality time together, even while they were trying to keep things under wraps, but this specific encounter is news to him. He tries to forget that night, considering it was one of the worst fallouts he and Tony ever had. Thinking about it also brings back the memories of being more worried than he’d ever been over Tony’s well-being, usurped only by the night of Tony's assault a few years later.

 

Early on, Tony and Bucky didn’t exactly get along. After a few years of both of them realizing they’re two of the most important people in Steve’s life, they started to shelf their differences in favor of embracing their almost uncanny similarities. He looks back over at the pair who are now engrossed in conversation with the other groomsmen, wondering if the two of them kept that little secret to themselves on purpose.

 

The song comes to an end and Steve allows Natasha to get pulled away so she and Bucky can cut their cake, making his way around the room to rejoin Tony who’s sitting at a table with some of their former Avengers. He easily slides an arm around the back of Tony’s chair, placing his other in Tony’s hand on the table, resting palm up with fingers twitching in silent request. He laces their fingers together, falling into the conversation on taking bets as to who will be retiring next.

 

“I still can’t believe you’re done, Tony,” Hank Pym shakes his head, running a hand over his grey beard. “You’re so _young_! I mean, retiring at _thirty-two_? You got at least another ten years before you got any right to hang up your mitt.”

 

Tony throws his head back in carefree laughter. “Not all of us want to play ball until our bones crack under the pressure like you, you old fart. I’m quitting while I’m ahead.”

 

“Nah, Hank’s right. You gotta come back to the Majors, man. Things have gotten so dull lately,” Scott complains.

 

“The Diamondbacks lost two more pitchers this season,” Thor hints, leaning across the table with his arms outstretched. “Come out to Arizona, Tony! I miss playing baseball alongside you. You’re too young to give up yet.”

 

“Hey now, where was all this shit talking at Bruce when he retired last year?” Tony points out, leaning into Steve for backup. “He wasn’t much older than I am now.”

 

“Yeah, but I retired for health reasons. S’Different,” Bruce shrugs, leaving Tony to fend for himself.

 

“You retiring is a damn shame,” Sam agrees. “Even though the Knights were shitty to you, there’s plenty of other teams out there who’d be happy to have you.”

 

“He’s just leaving the Avengers because he hasn’t been able to make kissy faces at Steve from the dugout the past few years!” Clint crows, coming up from behind to wrap his arms around Tony and start laying loud, smacking kisses all over his cheek. It didn’t take long at all for him to get to his normal, happy level of drunk. With most of Natasha’s family and friends being Russian, and Bucky’s company being, well, like Bucky, the wedding bar is fully stocked and the drinks have been flowing freely.

 

“I’m retiring before I get the kind of head damage you have, Birdbrain,” Tony deadpans as he shoved Natasha’s best man off him.

 

Clint pouts at him but continues around the table, undeterred and now harassing all of their friends to try and get them out of their seats. “Come on, losers. This is a wedding. Weddings are for dancing, not sitting around.”

 

He manages to get a clean sweep of the table aside from the two of them, Tony brushing Clint off with a thinly-veiled “Steve’s knee can’t handle it.” Before he gives up, dragging the rest of the men onto the dance floor while Hank sneaks away to reunite with his wife.

 

They people watch for a bit, just sitting together, hands linked, watching all their friends make fools of themselves on the dance floor. Steve keeps finding his gaze drawn back to Tony though, softening at the wrinkles that crease around the corners of his eyes when he smiles, his slightly pointed canines appearing when he laughs, the little smattering of freckles across his nose that are almost easy to miss.

 

Tony catches him staring again, laughter tapering off and expression softening to match Steve’s. He looks away first, mirthful, caramel eyes settling on Bucky and Natasha reluctantly kissing again when everyone starts clinking their silverware against their glasses.

 

He’s still looking away from Steve when he asks, “Do you ever think you’d want to get married one day?”

 

The question is shocking, to say the least. For as long as Steve has known Tony, the man has sworn off marriage as a ridiculous and archaic construct that was nothing more than a piece of paper. That outlook wasn’t exclusive to his status as a bachelor, his opinion unwavering even as he entered a long-term relationship with Steve and casually affirmed he’d like to grow old with him and no one else.

 

“Do _you_?” Steve asks, still a little incredulous the topic has been breached at all. Maybe it’s the atmosphere getting to Tony and making him feel a little sentimental.

 

“It’s not like it would be legal,” Tony snorts with an eye roll, doing a remarkable job of not answering the question at all. “It’s rumored they’re taking a case to Massachusetts court though to try and legalize it, even if they just end up calling it something stupid like a _civil union_ just to avoid tainting the ‘sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman’,” he air quotes, making a noise of contempt in the back of his throat.

 

“At least it’s _something,_ ” Steve offers optimistically.

 

Tony shrugs, his mouth curled in disgust quickly morphing into a grin. “If it does pass we could drive down there. Carol could marry us. Ha! Imagine that. Two gay men getting married by a lesbian. I’d do it for the big middle finger alone. We could get custom-made rainbow tuxes and burn bibles instead of saying vows. Elton John can play the bridal march as we walk down the aisle.”

 

Steve tries not to let it show how much Tony even bringing up the idea of marrying him warms his heart, even if it is in a completely joking and blasphemous manner. “Sounds good to me.”

 

Their maybe-hypothetical-maybe-not-so-hypothetical discussion of a ridiculously gay wedding ends when one of the servers approaches the table. She gathers the empty champagne flutes and sets down freshly refilled ones at the place settings. Steve accepts his with a smile and Tony holds up a hand in rejection when she gets to him.

 

“None for me, thanks. Could I get another water though?”

 

She nods and darts off to fetch him a refill. Steve gives his hand a squeeze, not making any further comment.

 

He’s incredibly proud of Tony for his recovery. At any events like this where most of their friends are drinking and it’s practically _expected_ all the of-age guests at least get a little tipsy, Steve feels that niggling guilt and worry for his partner. It’s not easy for Tony who had always fallen back on the excuse of his alcoholism developing out of being a “social drinker” to be in an environment like this. When they would go out to bars with friends, he’d get antsy and irritable. Most nights, they'd leave early. The very smell of alcohol used to set Tony on edge.

 

He’s been dry for almost three years now. The backslides were always the worst part, the longer the period of sobriety, the harder the fall when Tony dipped back into drink. There was a period in the months leading up to his current streak of sobriety where Tony seemed to stop caring about his journey at all, and was accepting that alcohol was just a part of who he was. It was ingrained into his DNA. But then, suddenly, he found the strength to cut himself off. Steve is still haunted by the way Tony described that breaking point.

 

_“It’s like drowning. I held and held my breath for as long as I could, and right when I could feel myself about to hit the surface— my lungs gave out. I sucked in water instead of air. It would feel good to just give up, drown, let it kill me. Sometimes that’s what it takes for the survival instinct to kick in and get you those last few inches above water. Something made me fight my way back up, and before I knew it— I breached. I could finally breathe again.”_

 

He’s been treading water ever since.

 

“What are you smiling about?” Tony asks, bringing Steve back into the present. He’s got a suspicious glint in his dark eyes that he knows exactly what Steve had been thinking about. His ability to read Steve’s mind has always been uncanny.

 

He hates when Steve, or anyone else, calls attention to his sobriety. “ _It’s just going to suck that much more when I fuck it up again,”_ Tony had bitterly spat at him one night when he had congratulated him on one year sober with a casual gathering of their friends. To him, the milestones aren’t worth celebrating, but he’s gotten less sensitive about it these past couple of years, Steve learning in tandem to not make such a big deal out of it.

 

“ _I’m done counting,_ ” he told Steve after having to start over from fourteen months sober, ruined by a single beer he instinctively grabbed while tinkering in his workshop that turned into ten beers to follow. “ _You keep track of that for me from here on out.”_

 

Steve isn’t naive enough to believe this is the end all be all. Even though it’s the longest Tony’s abstained from alcohol, it’s not like it was something that just went away. Tony would always be an alcoholic until the day he died, even if he didn’t let a drop of booze touch his tongue until then. It was something that was going to stay with him forever, but he didn’t have to let it control him.

 

“Nothing,” Steve lies pointlessly, still grinning at him. “I love you.”

 

Tony snorts, pushing the ice cubes in his glass of water around with his straw, chewing on the end of it as he sucks it down. “Weddings sure do turn you into a sap. You love me enough to dance with me?”

 

“Not that much,” Steve backtracks, but doesn’t fight it as Tony grabs his hands and drags him out of his chair.

 

There’s a slow song playing again as the dance floor fills with pairs. Tony takes the lead, the only dance partner Steve can trust he can follow. They hold each other close, Tony’s arm wrapped around his waist, laying his head on Steve’s shoulder.

 

He lets his eyes close, completely unconcerned by the world around him. They’re with mostly friends here, but even the strangers don’t stop either of them from showing their full affection to each other. They’re two men dancing together at their dear friends’ wedding. Two men who snuck off to have sex a couple of hours ago. Two men who are irrevocably in love with one another, and no amount of onlookers could change that.

 

Acceptance is a virtue slow-learned, a lesson made very evident to them after their Kiss Heard ‘Round the World.

 

The media had, predictably, ruptured into a frenzy. As impulsive as the decision felt, Steve knew it was just a matter of time until he refused to hide any longer. If he had any fears of what the public was going to sling at them, he wouldn’t have done it in the first place. His only worries were that Tony would be livid with him for the action, but those were quickly quelled by Tony’s immediate joking of, “ _You just had to one-up_ my _coming out, didn’t you?”_

 

They were hounded by reporters from the moment they broke apart to weeks following. They laughed, holed up together in Steve’s apartment, watching all the news while they stayed hidden away. From the praise, to the slander, to the connecting of the dots, to the denial. It was hilarious in a way, but maybe Steve was just riding on the delirium of doing something so reckless and so impactful. He started to appreciate Tony’s penance for shock-value after he got his own dangerous taste.

 

Everyone was dying for an inside scoop. Steve had the luxury of being officially retired after his great big public display of affection, feeling a small amount of guilt that Tony couldn’t hide away so easily. Part of him feared for Tony’s safety, just as he always will, but luckily nothing to the extent of the original incident has happened. Sure, insults are hurled at them from the occasional stranger on the street. There are still protesters outside of their games yelling about sodomy and sin. There will always be reporters so afraid of the truth that two male athletes could’ve fallen in love that they create conspiracies that it’s all some big PR stunt.

 

Having their relationship be so thoroughly scrutinized is easier for Tony than it is for Steve. He’s immensely grateful to have someone so used to being examined under a lense to bear this weight with him. The positive impact their coming out and following public relationship has on the world far outweighs all the hatred and slander they’re subject to. They’ve changed the perception of gay athletes by action more than anything else by being undeniable power houses in their own right. They would become household names so synonymous with baseball thanks to their talent and careers that they would be impossible to talk around.

 

He and Tony haven’t spoken much to the public about their relationship. They don’t hide when they go out to dates in the city. They hold hands on the street. They make their appreciation known to fans and interviewers who support them but don’t offer any insight beyond that. Steve isn’t sure how to take on the role of an activist, but he doesn’t mind paving the way with Tony, Carol, and so many other strong individuals at his side.

 

“You should rejoin the majors.”

 

Tony lifts his head, looking up at Steve with an unreadable expression that can’t settle between confusion, wariness, or rejection. Tony doesn’t falter in their dance steps, but the pace does lag behind the rhythm of the music. Neither of them correct it, their conversation taking precedence over coordination.

 

“What?”

 

They lock eyes and a tremendous wave of deja vu washing over both of them. Steve knows Tony is thinking back to the same moment he is, charged with defiance and insistence and two completely opposite viewpoints.

 

You should rejoin the majors. / _I think you should sign._

 

“We’re not doing this again,” Tony shakes his head, eyes narrowed. “I’ve made up my mind.”

 

It’s cosmically cyclical, the fight over Tony’s future in baseball starting the chain reaction of Bucky and Natasha’s relationship which eventually led to this moment, their wedding, landing the two of them in a parallel conversation. The only difference is that this time Steve isn’t going to let it end as horribly as it did before.

 

“Our friends are right— not that you’re ‘too young to retire’ or any of that. I know the only reason you came back to play in the minors was so we could play together again, but even after I left… you stayed.”

 

“I stayed because I’m a sucker for nostalgia and I had nothing better to do,” Tony denies, it ringing so clearly false even to his own ears. “Besides, I couldn’t just come back and win _one_ Championship; I wasn’t done yet—”

 

“Exactly!” Steve cups his face, staunchly keeping their eyes locked together. “You’re not done yet. You left the majors on such a bad note. I’m not saying you need a redemption arc to prove yourself to anyone… _I_ want to see you play for a major league team again. And all your friends do too. And, most of all, I think _you_ want to go back and prove everyone wrong again. The Knights stole your chance to get a World Series title that everyone knows you were capable of earning. You _deserve_ to take that title.”

 

He expects Tony to pull away from him. He’s always manifested his emotions physically, but for once, he’s completely still. They’ve both grown since that argument over whether or not he should leave the Avengers so many years ago, especially Tony. Steve watches as his eyes flicker, unsurely absorbing Steve’s reasoning and weighing them in his mind. It’s a mature thing to do, accept someone else’s opinion on a matter that affects your own life, and it’s one of the many things they’ve been able to teach each other over the years.

 

“Who would I even play for?” Tony asks dismissively, but it’s not an outright shut out. “Other teams thought I was a flight risk then and I’m a flight risk now.”

 

“Not everyone feels the way Pierce did, and even some of them back then may have changed their mind. One day they’ll _have_ to change their minds. And what better way to do that then return to the league that scorned you and cast you out after using you to get to the top?” He’s playing a little dirty now, knowing the best ways to try and convince Tony to see his agenda by appealing to his dramatic side.

 

Steve knows it’s working, a slow grin creeps in on Tony’s face and betraying the indifference to the idea his eyes are trying to portray. “Even if I did— _If_! Steve, that’s a big _if—_ I’d have to stay local because there’s no way I’d leave you again and no way I’d make you uproot your life.”

 

“If you got a good offer from a team somewhere, I’d go with you. You’re not uprooting me at all,” Steve denies. “Obviously a good chunk of the MLB resides in the South, so that crosses a fair amount off the list… but there’s always the West Coast…”

 

Tony visibly recoils at the idea. “New York is our home. We’re not going anywhere.”

 

Steve has to fight the urge to smile. _If only Tony from a few years ago could hear you now,_ he thinks fondly. “Then play for a team in New York,” Steve proposes the obvious solution. “You have your options. You could play for the Stars.”

 

Tony laughs loudly at him, startling a few nearby couples. He then places his hand back in Steve's, picking up their dance where they left off when he realizes they’re garnering more stares by standing around in the middle of the dancing couples in the ballroom rather than the fact that they both happen to be men. “Yeah fucking right. Me playing for your old team feels a little too full circle, don’t you think? Besides, there’s no way I’d go to the Stars with Peggy still on as the owner. The entire reason I left the Irons is so people would stop calling nepotism on me. Of all the things people shout about me now, I’d rather not add that back to the list.” He rolls his eyes. “Plus, no offense, they’re a little too…” he wrinkles his nose. “ _Noble_ for my taste. Too old school. That might’ve worked for people like you and Buckle back in the day, but I can’t be playing for a team that’s going to cramp my style.”

 

Steve makes a show of looking up towards the ceiling in thought. “Now, if only there was an immensely popular, successful, Major League Team in New York, full of promising, young, talented players and fresh management and leadership, strongly beloved or detested by all, that even non-baseball fans regard as one of the best teams…”

 

“Steve…” Tony warns.

 

“What? Janet told me you’ve gotten offers from them,” Steve says, naturally dropping into a whisper. “You’ve never even considered it?”

 

“I don’t know, honey…” Tony balks all of the sudden. It’s such a rare occasion to see him timid in the face of opportunity.

 

The show of vulnerability reels Steve in a bit. He cups Tony’s face, smoothing his thumb over the small frown his lips were set in. “Retire. Don’t retire. It won’t make any difference to me. I just want to see you happy. And if I’m being honest, I’ve never seen you happier than I have these past couple years while you’ve been playing again.”

 

Tony searches his face, mouth set in a tight line. “That’s different. It’s because I was back with you guys. But now…” he sighs, staring off at their nearby friends, many of which have retired or moved onto other teams and other leagues. “It’s not the same anymore.”

 

“So maybe it’s time to move on,” Steve urges. “And that doesn’t have to mean retirement.”

 

Tony falls silent as they continue to dance, putting his concentration back into his footwork. Steve expects the conversation to end along with the slow ballad, but even as the music transitions back into something more upbeat and the couples morph into groups of people dancing all together, Tony pulls him close, placing his lips at his ear.

 

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?” He whispers.

 

Steve smiles and wraps his arms around Tony’s shoulders. “Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

  
  


July, 2004 

 

The sheets next to him are cold when Steve reaches out to feel, confirming that he’s slept in this morning. He’s hardly a stranger to waking up alone, whether Tony was sleeping next to him the night before or not. He dozes lazily in that state of semi-consciousness for a while longer before making an effort to listen for any other sign of life in the house. He hears mostly silence, the occasional whirring of wheels, and a dull thud from downstairs.

 

Steve rolls over and cracks an eye open at the alarm clock, seeing flashing numbers blinking back at him. He reaches around the back of the nightstand, grasping the cord and giving a tug. The plug easily follows, confirming his suspicions that Tony was adamant about Steve having a relaxing weekend to the point of sabotaging his usual six a.m. wake up.

 

He smiles and leans over enough to plug it back in, checking his watch on the nightstand to reset the time. It’s a little after eight, meaning Tony probably left a few hours ago to get back to the city in time, and that Steve better get moving if he doesn’t want to be late himself.

 

The shower still smells like Tony’s citrus-y shampoo as Steve makes quick work of his morning routine, grabbing his tried-and-true body wash amongst all of Tony’s scrubs and cleansers. Afterwards he stands around in a towel and stares at his reflection in the large mirror, contemplating shaving his beard. He picks up the trimmer and sets it down before picking it up once again and cleaning up a few stray edges just to keep it looking neat. He even dips into a bit of the beard oil Tony not-so-subtly bought and left on his side of their double sink and combs it through the short hairs.

 

Dressing simply in jeans and a t-shirt, Steve digs around in the back of their closet for his special jersey for today’s occasion and then fastens on his knee brace. On his way out of the bedroom he can see a few stray bolts and screws abandoned on the floor, scooping them into his hand so he can drop the orphaned bits off in the studio before he leaves.

 

When he finally makes it down the stairs, jersey tossed over his shoulder, he’s greeted with Dum-E in a birthday hat. U is sporting one as well from the corner of the living room where he sits on his charging pad, apparently needing a little extra sleep this morning, same as Steve. Dum-E has a cupcake clasped between his little pincers, the candle halfway melted, flame already having gone out. Steve smiles and accepts the gift, giving him a little pat on his “head” in return. “Thanks, buddy,” he says, scooping off the parts of icing covered in pink wax with his finger before he takes a bite. It’s the thought that counts.

 

Tony always loves making a big deal about birthdays. Personally, Steve thinks he just likes to have an occasion to tease him about how old he’s getting, even if he always insists that’s not the case. The extravagance in his gift-giving seems to come and go in waves. Some years he just buys Steve film for his cameras or sketching pencils. Sometimes the gifts are handmade, fun, little, mechanical inventions that Steve knows are one-of-a-kind… And sometimes he buys him, well, a house.

 

Tony didn’t pay for all of it of course. They went in on it together, Steve having plenty saved up from his illustrious career to be able to look into all sorts of real estate options in New York. Tony helped him pull the trigger on the dream he had expressed to him so many years ago in that diner of the little house upstate. It had been a long process to find the perfect fit for them, but Steve was happy with the decision they made and knew that this is the kind of house Sarah would be happy to see him living in if she were still here.

 

It’s a simple but spacious two-story house-on-a-hill a little ways outside of New York’s Capital, complete with a huge yard and a white picket fence. The outside is juxtaposed of white brick and mixed cobblestone, weathered naturally to not look _too_ picture perfect. They house was nothing special at first, but the architectural structures were genuine and had character, enough that Steve knew it was the one right away. Tony only had minor renovations in mind, all of which have been completed within the last three years of them owning the home.

 

The house isn’t extravagantly large by any means, big enough for the two of them to be comfortable and host small to large groups of friends without anything getting out of hand. Tony had a wall knocked out upstairs to expand the master bedroom, leaving two more guest bedrooms up on the second floor. They painted the walls together, shopped for furniture and hung pictures together-- argued over where said furniture would sit and said pictures would hang. The house is mostly filled with Steve’s photographs, whether they’re blown up to large sized prints, polaroids collaged together, or single photos framed and sitting on any available surface. It’s a home full of memories, Tony’s penchant for bland and trendy minimalist decoration long forgotten and replaced with something much warmer.

 

His Stark-brand flair is showcased elsewhere, a custom garage built out back to house all his cars and double as his lab for the more extraneous projects his mind cooked up when he’s home on break. That space is all Tony’s, but they worked together to make something for the both of them as well.

 

An addition onto the back end of the house is the studio, both of them putting in the design work to make it the perfect space to suit both their needs. Plenty of natural lighting, shelving and storage for all of Tony’s tinkering and Steve’s painting materials. There are easels and canvases, rolling work benches and computers, paintbrushes mingling with screwdrivers. They’ve only had one or two accidental mix-ups between mugs holding Steve’s paint water and Tony’s coffee, but other than that things usually run smoothly whether they’re working at the same time or not.

 

Steve walks through the dining room and pokes his head into the door of the workspace. It looks like Tony ghosted through to move a few things around and drop a few new sketches on his desk before heading back downstate, but overall the room isn’t in disastrous shape. Steve drops the nuts and bolts into their respective containers, straightens up some things on his side of the studio before returning to the kitchen.

 

This year, Tony kept things relatively simple as far as celebration went. No big party, no extravagant surprises or gifts. He took a few days off from work so he and Steve could spend the holiday weekend of the Fourth of July up in Albany. They were shut ins for the entire long weekend, not doing anything that remarkable or significant, which was the perfect birthday gift Steve could ask for. Tony cooked for them, they sat out on their patio in the backyard listening to music as Tony tinkered and Steve sketched. They watched their distant neighbors set off fireworks on the evening of his birthday, falling asleep together in the hammock until Steve roused sometime in the early hours of the morning and carried Tony back inside.

 

Steve watches the currently empty hammock swinging in the slight breeze through the sliding glass doors leading out to the back deck, the coffee machine bubbling quietly behind him. Breakfast had been waiting for him on the counter, complete with a very ironic note from Tony stating “Don’t be late!”

 

It’s a gorgeous Summer day, the sky blue and completely cloudless. It’ll be about two and a half hours on I-87 S to get to the Bronx, but the weather is too tempting to pass up the opportunity for a nice ride. He scarfs down his food, makes sure the baby gates are secure for the bots, and grabs his brown leather jacket off the coat hanger before heading down to the garage. He bypasses all the cars lined up to the end of the row, pulling the sheet off of his motorcycle that doesn’t get nearly enough love these days.

 

The ride is just as nice as he expected, the wind whipping past him as he gets on the highway and makes his way back into the city. It’s strange that he doesn’t miss it nearly as much as he thought he would. Bucky had the right idea moving upstate, and now the distance between them didn’t feel as large. He’s able to see him almost every weekend, whether it’s at either of their homes or at one of Tony’s games.

 

Yankee Stadium is swarmed by the time Steve arrives, both with fans tailgating in the parking lot before the start of the game, as well as media conducting interviews with fans and players alike. He debates putting on the jersey for his walk through the parking lot, trying to decide whether it would help him blend in or just stand out _more_ if people get a good look at his face. He figures at one point or another he’ll get stopped by some reporter, and he’d rather be captured proudly repping his partner than not, so he takes off the jacket and dons the striped jersey and matching hat.

 

He walks through the crowds of mixed jerseys, everyone here supporting different teams and players from across the entire MiLB. Thought it isn’t really a Yankees game, the fact that they’re hosting brings plenty of blue and white jerseys for Steve to blend in with. He’s hardly the only person there with STARK and 42 blazoned across his back, but that doesn’t stop the occasional fan from recognizing him and asking for an autograph or a picture.

 

Luckily, the press is more focused on the actual active players rather than some retired old fogey, and he’s able to sneak around to the back side of the stadium, flashing his access pass to the security to be allowed inside.

 

His late start to the morning means he’s the last person to make it to Tony’s private box, the room already filled with familiar faces of close friends. “Steve!” Comes the disjointed cheer from the room as he slips inside, giving a little wave to everyone. Clint, Thor, and Rhodey are all getting food from the buffet selection, Pepper is grabbing a couple of beers from the mini bar for herself, Bruce, and Carol. He can see Nat and Buck’s backs from where they’re standing on the outside balcony along with both Carol and Clint’s wives and children, the kids clearly arguing over who gets to sit where amongst the three rows of seating once the game starts.

 

“Damn, Rogers, retirement treating you well?” Carol calls out to him with a grin, rubbing a hand over her chin. “This is new. How long have you been growing that out?”

 

“The real question is: how long has Tony been asking him to shave it off?” Pepper chimes in, pulling another chair over to their table so he can join.

 

“Probably too long,” Steve answers with a laugh, going through his rounds of hugs and ‘good to see you’s to those he doesn’t see quite as often. “I’m glad everyone could make it. Tony’s going to be so happy.”

 

“Yeah, if the press ever lets him go,” Bruce checks his watch. “Game starts in half an hour.”

 

Steve now turns to see the flat screen TV mounted in the corner of the room, currently muted and playing ESPN’s coverage of the All-Star Futures Game, this year hosted by the New York Yankees. They’re interviewing different players from the National and World teams, some on their own and some in small groups. The Futures Game was founded a few years ago, and garners a little more popularity each year. It’s a nice break from the height of the Major League Baseball season, the MLB teams taking turns to host Minor League ball players each year. It’s similar to the usual All-Star game where the opposing teams are made of a conglomerate of players, but instead of just pulling from the two leagues within the U.S., one team is made up of all United States based players, while the other is comprised of players from leagues all around the world. It was a fun showcase all the prospects from the minor league, both players they’re familiar with as well as those from other countries.

 

The glass door to the balcony slides open, Bucky and Natasha coming inside and smiling when they see Steve. “Was wondering when the birthday boy was going to show up!” He throws an arm around him, Steve always happy to see his bad arm do something with such ease now. “You have a good weekend?”

 

“Yeah, slept in for once,” Steve laughs.

 

“Consider yourself lucky,” Natasha says, coming around to his side of the table so he can reach out for his godson and the reason his best friends are losing so much sleep lately.

 

“There’s my little guy,” Steve grins, Natasha passing the baby carefully into his arms. He still feels so _small_ but somehow looks so much bigger with every passing time he sees him. “Hey, Grant,” he greets the almost-one-year-old with a smile, letting the baby grab hold of his index finger. “You behaving for mom and dad?”

 

“He’s got Barnes’ blood and your name, of course he isn’t,” Natasha says dryly, smiling gratefully when Carol slides her a beer.

 

“I remember when they were that age,” Clint sighs from the next table over. “Cherish it while you can. You’ll be missing the changing of diapers and three a.m. crying sessions before you know it.”

 

Natasha shakes her head. “I’m going to respectfully disagree with you there. Honestly, I don’t know how you didn’t lose all your hair after one kid, let alone three.”

 

Thor quickly chimes in with his experience with his and Jane’s two girls, and before Steve knows it he’s caught in the middle of a conversation he has absolutely no input on. He tunes out most of it, smiling down at the little boy in his arms, gurgling and squirming, occasionally tugging on Steve’s finger or reaching up to pick at one of the shiny buttons on his shirt. Steve has never been in a position of his life where he really fell on one side or the other of whether or not he wanted children.

 

It may have been a possibility once upon a time for him, but at this point it doesn’t feel like offspring are in the cards. Tony has made his opinion clear multiple times, saying he could never raise a kid without screwing it up, and that the bots were children enough for him. Even if surrogacy or adoption were available options to him, Steve feels like that time in his life has passed. Grant was a surprise to both Bucky and Natasha, but once they realized it was happening they were completely on board with raising a child. With the rest of his close friends currently parenting newborns to teens, or even expecting another child on the way, Steve has plenty of outlets to feel that occasional nurturing sensation of fatherhood, and for him that’s enough.

 

“Shhh, shhh! Tony’s on!” Rhodey calls out to the group, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume as they all turn to the TV.

 

Tony is standing in front of the cameras but is facing away from them, gesturing to someone off screen. “Yeah, yeah, get on in here— What? Yeah, it’s fine— I want you in here with me, come on, kid.” A fond murmuring immediately arises from their group as they see a familiar face appear on screen. Scrappy little teenager Peter Parker is no longer a teenager, but still pretty scrappy looking even at twenty-seven. He’s smiling nervously, glancing between the reporters and the cameras and Tony, letting the man wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him into the shot.

 

“I don’t want to interrupt your interview, Mr. Stark—”

 

“Nonsense! This isn’t about me today— well, it’s always a little bit about me— but this is about you!” He gives Peter’s shoulder’s a little shake, murmuring something quickly in his ear that makes Peter stand a little straighter, immediately more conscious of his posture on camera. “Everyone is here to celebrate you lot, auspicious, fresh blood on their way to the top,” Tony looks back to the interviewer off screen. “Sorry to hijack the interview here, but no one wants to hear me blather on and on. Everyone should be hearing about these guys’ experiences. Today is about _them_.”

 

“Not a problem at all, I bet many people are happy to see you two back together,” The interviewer says. “You two used to play on the Avengers together, although Peter was first recruited when you had already moved onto playing for the Knights. A lot us remember the almost father-son relationship that developed between the two of you even though you only played together for one season. People have even noticed Peter’s pitching style is similar to yours in a way. What was it that made Tony stand out to you as such an influence, Peter?”

 

“Um, I’ve always looked up to Mr. Stark. When I was finishing high school, I really wasn’t sure which direction to take with my life. I really loved baseball, but I loved school and science too. The fact that Tony was always so open with his love for both sides of things and has been able to create this style of pitching no one has ever seen before with all his knowledge about physics and maths really pushed me to try and do the same thing. He’s actually the reason I quit baseball for a bit to pursue my interests in STEM research.”

 

“Right, this is your first season back since leaving the Avengers four years ago to attend MIT, Tony’s alma mater. Were you nervous coming back after so many years out of practice?”

 

Peter laughs bashfully, scratching at his messy brown hair in a mannerism that reminds Steve so much of Tony. It’s funny that Tony is only five years Peter’s senior, but they really had developed this natural master and apprentice dynamic. “Honestly, I wasn’t until people started bringing it up to me so much. I was a little apprehensive, but once I finished at MIT I knew there was something about baseball I was missing. I was grateful that the Avengers took me back, because I honestly couldn’t imagine playing for anyone else.”

 

“I tried my damnedest to get him on the Yankees, but he was set on spending at least another season in the Minors,” Tony smiles, nudging him with his shoulder. “Too bad he’s so good that there’s no way the Majors can look him over now.”

 

“Tony, what has it been like to see your former teammate rising to such prominence?”

 

Tony smiles proudly at Peter, squeezing his arm. “I’ve been saying it for years, but Pete has always been the kid everyone needs to look out for. You see a lot of guys out on the field working hard, showing their talent, but not all of them have that _It Factor._ I’ve seen that spark in this kid since day one and just know that every recruiter in the MLB better be trying to get Peter Parker on their roster for next season now that he’s back in action.”

 

Peter is blushing bright red, ducking his head with eyes still darting around with uncertainty, eventually just settling on Tony as the only safe place for his gaze to land. “Thanks, Sir. I’m happy to be back.”

 

“Well thank you for your time today before the game, both of you. It’ll be starting soon so we’ll let Peter get out of here, but I would like to wrap things up with you, Tony.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Tony gives Peter a little pat on the back. “Pitch well. You’ve got this.”

 

“Yessir,” Peter nods and quickly darts off camera, turning around to throw a haste thank you to the interviewer before rushing off into the stadium.

 

“Now, Tony,” the interviewer directs his attention again. “Is there anything else you’d like to say about today’s game before we cut to inside the Stadium where the players are getting ready for the big game?”

 

Tony looks directly into the camera as she holds the mic back out to him. Steve knows out of all the people watching from the other side of the TV screen, feeling like they’re making eye contact with America’s Favorite Pitcher, this message is for no one else but him. Tony presses two fingers to his lips, kissing them and holding them out to the camera in a peace sign. “To the future.”

 

The TV is muted again as the feed cuts to a different reporter on the field, the players warming up in the background. Steve hands his little red-headed godson back to Natasha as the group slowly migrates outside to take their seats as the game draws near. Everyone cheers and waves to Peter when he finally makes it onto the field, his face lighting up immediately. Their box has one of the best views (as to be expected when it belonged to the home team’s star pitcher), and Peter easily spots them and waves back in excitement before the coach barks for him to get a few practice pitches in.

 

The first pitch has already been thrown when the sliding door opens from behind them, everyone turning to see Tony has finally made it.

 

“Uncle Tony!” Monica is the first to jump out of her seat and fly up the steps to launch herself at him. He’s ready for it, kneeling down to catch her and spin her around in his arms.

 

“There’s my little firecracker!” He grins at her, kissing both of her cheeks much to her delight as he props her up on his hip, feigning a struggle to hold her up. “Jesus, you’re getting so big! What the hell are your moms feeding you?”

 

She giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck as he leans over to give high fives to the outstretched hands of Clint’s kids. “Mama says I’m gonna be taller than you, soon!”

 

“Not a huge feat,” Carol snorts, Tony thumping her behind the ear as he takes his seat behind her and Maria, plopping down next to Steve. Monica stays happily seated in his lap.

 

“Hi, honey. Jersey looks good on you,” Tony compliments with a grin, leaning over to share a quick peck.

 

Steve hums and catches him by the jaw, pressing a slightly longer kiss to his lips. He’s been spoiled this weekend with the amount of Tony he got, especially after a few weeks of not seeing him at all due to the Yankees’ travel schedule. “Thanks. It was a birthday gift.”

 

Monica chatters happily to Tony as they all watch the game, telling him all about her last year at school, her plans for the Summer, and the other notable things in the daily life of a nine year-old. Steve can’t help but smile as Tony nods and expresses interest, answering all the questions she has about his projects. Whenever they visit Massachusetts or Carol and Maria come to New York, Monica always glues herself to his side. Her moms say she talks about him nonstop and brags to all the kids at her school about her Uncle Tony, especially since she spent a few weeks with them last Winter, making herself a semi-permanent fixture on Tony’s workbench, fascinated by his projects.

 

On Steve’s other side, he’s able to engage in the hardcore baseball talk that always occurs when Nat and Bucky around. He isn’t sure if he’s ever met two people more destined to be together based on their analysis and love of the sport alone, both of them still keeping up with teams across both leagues. They’re fascinated by the World Team, never having seen any of the International teams play in person.

 

Unlike when Bucky retired, Steve didn’t really stay on top of things that went on in the realm of baseball. He hung up his glove for good, that part of his life behind him now. He stayed uninvolved beyond remaining a sponsor for the Avengers and attending as many of Tony’s games as he could. He’s happy though, living upstate, selling his paintings and photos, doing freelance work here and there. It’s a good life, all things considered.

 

The game is exciting, no team ever getting too much of a lead on the other while getting enough runs and close calls to keep things interesting. Peter comes in right before the Seventh inning stretch, the momentum paused for him right before the final two innings.

 

Most of them head back into the interior of the box to refresh themselves on drinks and food, Steve’s knee making him antsy enough to warrant a quick walk after staying seated for so long.

 

He walks around the inside of the stadium, plenty of spectators queueing up for merch, food, alcohol, and the bathroom, and not necessarily in that order. He keeps his hat down low and goes unrecognized by most of the fans. A single young boy spots him while waiting in line with his parents, mouth opening slightly as he makes eye contact. Steve holds up a finger to his lips and flashes the kid a knowing smile, the little boy nodding immediately and mirroring the action.

 

Steve keeps his gaze so low that once he gets back to the box, he doesn’t see another hand reach for the door at the same time as him. “Oh, sorry— Janet!” He’s surprised to see the woman; He actually hasn’t seen her since the wedding. “It’s good to see you! Tony said you couldn’t make it.”

 

The strength of the hug from such a small woman always surprises him. “I almost didn’t. Finished up with things a bit early and thought I’d try and stop by to see everybody.”

 

The Avengers have been doing so well in the past decade that Janet is busier than ever managing them, minimizing her free time to socialize with her now mostly retired cohorts. “They’ll all be glad you made it. And I’m sure everyone will gang up on you complaining about how you’re showing us all up working twice as long and twice as hard as the rest of us old worn-out athletes ever did,” he laughs, opening the door for her. Everyone is already back outside in their seats, the inning having started back up already.

 

“You know, it’s funny you bring that up,” she puts a hand on his arm, halting them from going any further. “I actually want a moment with you, Steve. Can we take a seat?”

 

Steve blinks at her and fakes a shudder. “Wow. It’s been too long since I’ve heard that. Still strikes fear into my heart,” he chuckles and sits down at the table with her.

 

She smiles knowingly. “Well I can’t say I’m not going to spark that same reaction with what I wanted to talk to you about… I’m sure you and I can both agree that I’m _long_ overdue for retirement. I won’t be able to rest easy unless I can find someone capable enough to fill the position— Probably because Fury’s ghost would haunt me if I didn’t—” she glances towards the sky before looking back at Steve. “And, well, I’m just going to be straightforward with you: I want you to take over as Manager of the Avengers.”

 

Steve takes a beat or two just to stare at the woman. He knows it’s not a joke, but the statement alone he just can’t take seriously. “Janet… I don’t know the first thing about managing a team...”

 

“Of course you do,” Janet insists, grabbing hold of his hands. “Before you say no, hear me out. You know that team better than anyone. No matter which players come and go, you know the _heart_ of the team. You’re good at leading people, at making decisions. You’ve got a natural talent of knowing how to be exactly what people want and what they need. You’re the most competent person for the job, even if you don’t realize it yet. And if you wanted, I can stay on for the first year with you just to show you the ropes and be there to help. Honestly, I don’t think you’d even need it, but if having a little extra insurance will make you say yes…”

 

Steve still can’t believe this is a real offer. He remembers Peggy making a similar joke to him years ago, and he’s sure he thought the same thing he’s thinking right now. Just because he knows baseball and was a Captain at one point doesn’t mean he can take on the burden of managing an entire team. And especially one that’s risen to such promise. What if he screwed it up? Former players became managers and coaches all the time, but that didn’t mean it was the kind of career path for him. Athletes had tendencies to retire early, whether it was willing or because of physical strain. For Steve, it was a bit of both. Even now his injury didn’t bother him all that much, his hand moving under the table to absentmindedly rub at his brace.

 

“I don’t need an answer right away,” Janet says. “The Avengers can’t get rid of me that quickly. I’ve got plenty loose ends to tie up, but I’d definitely feel like everything is a lot more secure if I can place my team in the hands of someone I know I can trust.” She smiles at him, squeezing his hand once more. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe you could do it. You know that.”

 

Steve swallows. She’s right, he does know that. Janet doesn’t waste anyone’s time, especially her own. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

 

He glances outside to where all his friends are sitting. He catches Tony’s profile, laughing at something Monica has told him, unaware of the big-life-decision conversation his boyfriend is having on the other side of the glass. Every time Steve comes to one of his games, or tosses a ball around in the backyard for fun with the man, he _does_ feel that little phantom tug of longing. The echoing sounds of the stadium, the smell of the fresh chalk on grass and hot dogs and popcorn, the feeling of an old leather gloves or sawdust left on his palms from a new wooden bat— it would always feel nostalgic to him, even if that chapter of his book had ended.

 

 _One cannot look to the future without acknowledging the past_. Maybe this career Steve had felt so much pride for wasn’t over just yet. If Tony had taught him anything over the years, it’s that nothing is ever really _finished_. In his eyes, everything is a work in progress; There will always be more room to build, grow, and improve.

 

As much as Steve pokes fun at Tony likening machines to people, he might just be onto something there.

  
  


 

February, 2010 

 

_“Tony, I’d like to thank you again for sitting down to speak with us today.”_

 

_“Thank you for having me, Miss Brant. I’m sorry that I’m a little rusty at this.”_

 

_Betty smiles sympathetically. “No problem at all. I would expect as much with this being the first sit-down exclusive interview you’ve agreed to in over fifteen years. We were surprised when you agreed to a tell-all interview. Why now?”_

 

_Tony takes a deep breath. “Well… After I came out— which was a PR nightmare in and of itself— everyone thought it would just make everything better if I stayed quiet. I figured they were right, especially since that coming out wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place. I stayed quiet because I had no other choice. No matter what I did or accomplished, my sexuality was going to be a topic that loomed over me throughout the rest of my career. And I figured that what better time to lay everything out than for my retirement?”_

 

_“Do you regret coming out when you did?”_

 

_“Not anymore. At the time I didn’t, and then after everything that happened in the following few years, I really did. It took some more time and healing after that, but I came back to a place where I’m happy I did what I did.”_

 

_“And by everything, you mean the assault?”_

 

_“In part, yes. The assault was certainly a wake up call for me that not everything I did just existed in some vacuum. My decision to come out ruined my relationship at the time because I let it. I thought I would no longer have anything to be ashamed of if everything was out in the open, but the most important thing to me, my relationship, suffered because I selfishly thought I could protect him.”_

 

_“Your relationship with Steve Rogers. The man in the photos that forced your coming out.”_

 

_“Yes.”_

 

_“When did that start?”_

 

_“It was… 1992.”_

 

_“From public perception it seemed like the two of you were rivals for quite some time. What was it that suddenly flipped the switch?”_

 

_The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “I’m not sure we have enough time for me to tell that entire story. You could say that opposites attract.”_

 

_“Was it difficult for a romantic relationship to develop in an environment that discouraged it as much as yours did? There was plenty of rumors and allegations made about you from your former teammates on the Irons which came back up after you confirmed your sexuality to the public. Were you deterred at all when you decided to pursue Steve Rogers?”_

 

_“Of course it was difficult. Everything about it was difficult and terrifying, but none of it came from Steve. Neither of us felt any kind of shame or turmoil between the two of us, it was just a matter of keeping things secret because we knew the what the reaction would be. Neither of us wanted to put our careers in jeopardy like that, but we cared too much about each other to just ignore what we were feeling. It’s no one else’s business but our own, but I’m more than happy to say that we were just two people who fell in love the same as every couple who’s ever fallen in love before us and will fall in love after us. There was nothing else to it.”_

 

_“Your kiss at the Championship game in ‘99 shocked everyone. Was that planned?”_

 

_Tony laughs, still a bit in awe that the situation is something he feels he’s able to laugh at now. “For once that one was all Steve. We hadn’t been together for over two years at that point after I left baseball to work at Stark Industries. I came back to the Avengers because I’m a sentimental bastard, but I never stopped loving Steve, and he apparently felt the same way. Although I have to admit, kissing me on National television was one hell of a way to ask to get back together.”_

 

_Betty smiles at him, but her expression quickly goes somber again. “A lot of people weren’t happy about that kiss. Were you two prepared for the backlash that would come?”_

 

_“We dealt with the first round of it after I was outed by the media. I’ve always known what it would be like when the truth about my sexuality would eventually surface. Steve… he’s a lot more of a private guy, but he’s handled it all so well. We both have been able to help each other take a step back and recognize what this really means to people. The speculation and the controversy… the nasty things people say or assume about us… None of that really matters because we know who we are. If out of every hundred people who think we’re horrible monstrosities because we love someone of the same gender, there’s one who is just like us and doesn’t feel so alone, then it’s all worth it.”_

 

_“Since then you and Steve have spoken about your relationship and experiences with discrimination and homophobia at LGBT events and conferences, but have never addressed it with the media until now. You inspired many closeted athletes, whether they’re retired or active, to come out as well. If you could say anything to those who are still against this movement, what would it be?_

 

_“Who you are romantically or sexually attracted to or involved with has absolutely nothing to do with your ability to do anything, whether it’s serving your country, playing a sport, or performing any kind of job. Period.”_

 

 _“Very well said. So, back onto the topic of your retirement. At thirty-nine years old you are officially leaving the sport. On top of your Championship titles from the Triple-A Minor League, you have now earned a total of_ five _World Series titles out of seven of your seasons playing for the Yankees, and even won MVP three years in a row, the first time that’s ever happened in the history of the sport.”_

 

_“Ah, it sounds so lovely when you say it all out loud like that.”_

 

_“It’s a remarkable career. You should be very proud. You’ve dipped your toes into ventures outside of baseball, including turning your company into a multi-million dollar industry with branches beyond just sports equipment. The real question on everyone’s mind is… What’s next?”_

 

 _Tony takes a moment. Smiles. “When I figure that out, I’ll let you know.”_  


 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“He’s late.”

 

“He’s always late,” Steve sighs, checking his watch in futility.

 

“How is that even possible? You guys live together. Ever heard of carpooling?”

 

“I tried, he would not budge this morning.”

 

Carol echoes his sigh, tucking her short hair beneath her cap and slapping Steve on the arm. “We better just get out there then. Can’t keep the new blood waiting.”

 

Knowing she’s right, he grabs his clipboard and holds the door to his office open for her. “After you, then.”

 

They walk out onto the field together to where the thirty-eight members of the Avengers stand, an even mix of seasoned veterans and new additions to the league. The group immediately ceases casual conversation and straightens their posture as the duo walks out of the tunnel, standing at their full attention. Steve and Carol come to a stop in front of them, Carol just quirking an eyebrow at him, gesturing with her hand that the floor is his.

 

He clears his throat and addresses the team, pulling his hat a little lower to keep the bright morning sun out of his eyes. “Good morning, everyone. I know I’ve already met with all of you individually, but for everyone who hasn’t had the pleasure yet, this is Carol Danvers, owner of the team.”

 

They all nod respectfully to her, a murmur of greeting reverberating from the team.

 

“Danvers here is a lot more hands-on than most owners you’ll know in the league, so expect to see her a lot around the Stadium. I apologize we’re running a little behind schedule this morning, and I’m sure you’ll notice Coach Stark isn’t here just yet. Until he gets here I’m going to have you all go ahead and start warming up. Get some stretches in, go around the diamond for a lap or two if you need it—”

 

A metal clang echoes from behind them and they all turn to look. Tony Stark walks towards them, eyes shrouded by orange-tinted spectacles. There is no mistaking that lopsided grin and casual strut onto the field even from a distance.

 

“What’s everyone standing around for?” Tony calls out with a shit-eating grin.

 

“We were waiting for you, Your Grace,” Steve responds, sounding annoyed but the two of them share a smile as Tony comes to a stop next to him. “Twelve years you’ve been showing up to this stadium late. _Twelve_ years.”

 

“Has it really been that long?” Tony scratches at his beard. “Some people would call that tradition, y’know. Why break tradition?”

 

An unsure laugh rises up from the players at their bickering, the men trading hard-to-read glances with each other.

 

Steve sets a hard gaze on Tony. _Behave_.

 

Tony returns it mockingly. _Make me._

 

“I’ll let you boys handle it from here,” Carol cuts in with an eye roll before turning back to the players. “Happy to have some of you back. I look forward to seeing the rest of you prove yourselves,” she says before taking her leave.

 

Tony blows his whistle, letting it dangle around his neck. “Alright, get your stretches in now because we’re starting with a scrimmage in fifteen. Once you’re done split up into Vets versus Newbies.”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows, taking Tony by the elbow and pulling him aside slightly as the bewildered players follow instruction. “You’re sure you want to go straight into a practice game? I know we didn’t really discuss your exact regiment, but—”

 

“I’m not starting them with foundational bullshit, Steve. These guys run and throw and catch balls day in and day out. Let’s see how they actually play and I’ll make the adjustments after I actually see them in action.” He pats Steve on the arm. “Go hang out in the dugout and do your managerial stuff. I’ve got this. Sometimes you gotta run before you can walk.”

 

Steve sighs and holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Don’t be late next time.”

 

Tony winks and salutes to him. “Sure thing, Cap.”

 

He unwillingly retreats, knowing it’s not his place to supervise practices anymore. That’s Tony’s job now, and he has to trust that he knows what he’s doing.

 

For the past five years he’s been helming the ship of the Avengers alongside Carol who took over as owner when Fury passed seven years prior. When Natasha had initially taken her maternity leave, they brought in Grant Ward who had apparently been a very subpar Coach according to Carol. When it finally came time for Natasha to retire, they were struggling to find a suitable replacement and weren’t looking to get burned again. As far as baseball went, it was a rather quick turnover time for the entire managing staff of the team. Fury, Janet, and Natasha had been a united and well-established front for so long that once the power had shifted onto Carol, Steve, and Natasha’s shoulders, they knew they had big cleats to fill. The Avengers had risen to such prominence under their leadership that once things started to shift, everyone questioned if this would be the end of a well-run legacy.

 

They had all thought convincing Tony to take the job would be a lot harder than it ended up being. Carol had suggested it as a joke over drinks one night as they were pawing through resume after resume to find a good fit for their rag-tag little crew. Suddenly they were taking the throwaway comment into serious consideration, and before they knew it they had approached Tony with the idea. He had already decided on retiring from the Yankees, Steve figuring he would go back into being a distant advisor and investor through Stark Industries as a man who hadn’t even hit his forties yet and had a life that was far from over.

 

All it took was them breaching the hypothetical topic over a barbecue at their Albany house one night and Tony agreed immediately. Like everything he did with his career, there was plenty of controversy their decision had been met with when they made the announcement. Considering how outraged some people were about Steve becoming manager of the team a few years back, they were bound to ruffle some feathers with yet another change in coaching. Carol takes it all far more gracefully than Steve ever could, especially considering Nick Fury got plenty of flack just for being a black owner of a team. Passing his legacy off to “a dyke and a couple of queers” was too much for some fans.

 

Plenty were still loyal though, and showed their support, that number of people growing with each passing day. The world got a lot more tolerable with each year that went on, something Steve told himself time and time again as more of a comfort and a hope, never really believing it until he could see the change happening around him. They released a simple statement that he and Tony would be able to work together and set aside their relationship to be complete professionals, but there would always be people trying to tear them down.

 

They set the ground rules months before, knowing if there was one little slip up then it was the Avengers’ reputation that was on the line, not just theirs. No kissing or touching at the stadium, no bringing their home life to work, no discussing their relationship to the media, and absolutely no tolerance of any players who try to undermine their authority. Steve tried to set a _no flirting_ rule in place as well, but that would be practically impossible considering the two people he’s working with. For a gay man and lesbian woman, Carol and Tony sure liked to flirt with each other more than anything else.

 

Steve sits down in the stands, answering a few emails on his phone and occasionally glancing up to observe how practice is going so far. Tony walks around between all the positions, surveying the players and occasionally shouting out instructions, or calling a timeout in the game for some kind of teachable moment. He does have to admit that starting their practice off with a little spirited rivalry is far more interesting than having the boys do stamina training or boring drills. The players all even look like they’re having _fun_. As per usual, Steve shouldn’t have even questioned Tony in the first place.

  


“Fuck, I’m exhausted,” Tony sighs loudly as he walks in the front door, tossing his keys onto the table and dramatically collapsing across the couch surrounded by a sea of boxes in their living room. “Is it too late to quit?”

 

“Yes, I think so,” Steve calls out distractedly from the kitchen, poking around in the boxes on the counter. “Did the delivery guys seriously not bring the plates yet?”

 

“I told them to bring the essentials first. Plates aren’t that essential— what the hell do you think takeout boxes are for?”

 

Steve sighs and picks up said takeout boxes, carrying them over to the barren living room, looking down at Tony who’s got an arm thrown over his face. “And our tables didn’t rank as essential to you either?”

 

Tony lifts an elbow to peek up at him and wordlessly pushes a box by his foot closer to them. “Voilà.”

 

“Innovative,” Steve snorts before lowers himself to the ground, grunting as he gets in a sitting position. No chairs either. “Come on. Eat.”

 

He groans and drags himself into a sitting position, licking his lips as he eyes up their Lucky Blue Dragon order. “Alright, but first thing’s first, did I leave my—”

 

“Bathroom sink.”

 

Tony grins and leans down to kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks, hon.” He bustles off to the bathroom, Steve setting all their food out the best he can on top of the box.

 

Tony returns a second later, apparently picking up some renewed vigor along the way as he plops down next to Steve, crossing his legs. He fiddles with the golden band now back on his ring finger as he looks over the selection, eventually dragging the carton of pork dumplings over first.

 

“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders,” Steve comments wryly.

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Maybe I wouldn’t lose it so much if it weren’t for your stupid rule.”

 

“I just keep mine in my pocket during practice,” Steve shrugs, glancing at his own wedding band glinting in the low light offered from the street lamps outside. He always feels a little better the minute he steps out of the Stadium at the end of the day, slipping it back onto his finger as he walks out to the car. Tony leaves his own wedding ring all over the place, half of the time forgetting to take it off at all. Steve once found it _inside_ of his discarded baseball glove underneath the passenger’s seat of their car.

 

“I can start doing that to if you _really_ want me to lose it,” Tony says around a mouthful of dumpling. “So I’ve got some questions about a handful of the new recruits…”

 

While they kept their personal life off the field, it would be kind of impossible not to take their work home with them somewhat. Steve is sure there will be plenty more nights like this, discussing the team, certain members, making plans and hard decisions together. Hopefully they won’t always be having these talks on their living room floor eating Chinese food on top of a box, looking more like the twenty-something year old college kids that probably surround them in this apartment complex than the pair of married, grown men that they are.

 

Tony cleans up when they’re done, allowing Steve to quietly slip into the shower where Tony joins him after. There’s a little half-assed foreplay involved, but they’re both too exhausted after a hectic first day of Spring Training to really get anywhere past some open-mouthed kisses and lazy groping. Steve might be painfully aware of his age at times, but when Tony is a man in his prime and still finds Steve attractive even at fifty-two, he must be holding it together pretty well.

 

They don’t go to bed just yet, both of them slipping into their shared home office. It’s the only room they’ve actually gotten 100% set up so far, more as a necessity than anything else. When they signed the lease for this Brooklyn flat two months ago, they immediately started getting what was primarily Steve's office together, with a nook in the corner where Tony could reside, tucked away in a comfortable armchair to do whatever coach-type work needed to be done while Steve sat at his computer behind the big mahogany desk. Tony starts rifling through the filing cabinet, combing through copies of all the hand-me-downs of info from Janet’s records until he finds the folders he’s looking for, stacking them up in his arms and retreating to his corner.

 

Steve takes his glasses off to rubs his eyes after staring at the screen for too long, leaning back in his chair and spinning around to stare out of the window behind him. He can see the building he and Bucky used to live in, their old apartment sitting in the distance, now almost unrecognizable from all the additions and renovations. It had been Tony’s idea that they rent an apartment in Brooklyn rather than Manhattan when they were in the process of moving back to the city so that Steve had the chance to feel a little more at home. He would miss the sanctuary that was their private little domain Upstate, but they could still go back whenever they wanted (and whenever their jobs allowed).

 

Steve eventually has to be the one to call it a night, coaxing Tony out of his chair and into their bedroom. The younger man still clutches at one of the folders, muttering something about win ratios as Steve guides him to bed.

 

Tony is sitting up on his side of the bed, thick-framed glasses still perched on his nose when Steve emerges from the bathroom. The lamp on his bedside table is on, folder still open in his lap as he reads over the charts in front of him, occasionally marking something with a pen.

 

“Tony,” Steve chides gently, crawling into bed next to him. “Hey. Those papers will still be here tomorrow.”

 

“Pythagorean Expectation,” Tony mumbles under his breath.

 

“What?”

 

Tony looks up at him over the rim of his glasses, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Pythagorean Expectation,” he repeats. “It’s a sports analytics formula I would use sometimes after I played for the Avengers for a couple of seasons to compare us to other teams we played against. You can estimate the expected percentage of games a team ‘should’ have won based on how many runs were scored and allowed.”

 

Steve leans against the pillows, resting his head on top of Tony’s. “Is it accurate?” He looks down at the folder Tony had brought to bed, a record of the Avengers’ wins and losses and overall stats for the past ten years.

 

“Eh, somewhat. It’s usually off by up to three games overall, but it’s not a bad way to evaluate the offensive and defensive aspects of a team… There’s always room for deviation because of luck and chance though, which can make predicting a team’s future win-loss ratio difficult…” Tony might have more to say about it, but is cut off by the yawn that forces its way out of his mouth.

 

Steve closes the folder and Tony allows him to toss it onto the bedside table. He reaches over him to turn off the lamp and slips Tony’s glasses off his face, setting them down on his nightstand. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of luck and chance in baseball,” he muses quietly as Tony finally lays down, snuggling back against him.

 

“I s’pose not,” Tony mumbles, lifting his arm so his husband can snake one around his waist, pressing his back against Steve’s chest.

 

He presses his face closer, burying his nose in the soft hair on the back of Tony’s head. “There was a fair amount of luck and chance involved for us to end up together.”

 

Tony makes a sleepy sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t think there’s any formula in the world that could’ve predicted that... Maybe I’ll try to come up with one... I might need the rest of my life with you, though... Gotta collect more data.”

 

Steve smiles and presses a kiss to the nape of Tony’s neck. “I look forward to it. You can start tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you thank you to everyone who's left such kind comments and reviews after this last chapter was posted. It took a little additional time to get the "official" ending out here, but I finally did it. Truth be told, it was almost finished a month ago....... and then Endgame happened. (No spoilers, but I can say to stay tuned for a fix it fic or two inspired from that movie lol).
> 
> Just a couple QUICK THANGS to address. I've gotten some questions about continuing this universe and possibly writing some "deleted scenes". When I originally planned this fic, I knew all the places I wanted time jumps, where I wanted to fill in the blanks later or let the reader do so. Those were purposeful decisions, but at the same time I am totally open to writing more about our boys in this AU (I've grown so attached) and it's like an 80% chance that I already have a couple of oneshots planned. If there's any particular favorite moments or "off screen" events that happened in this fic, please let me know!! I'd be more than happy to write them (if I haven't started already hehe).
> 
> In case you don't come from my other social media platforms, I'm also an artist! I plan on doing some fun fanart and things for this verse, which I'll either add directly into this fic (maybe under a 9th chapter or something?) or just create a separate works under this series to share those with you guys. Fun fact: I actually drew fanart for this fic years ago: https://papistark.tumblr.com/post/149194352236 . I hate it now because I've improved IMMENSELY since drawing that, but now I'm just motivated to redraw it and draw so much more. So keep an eye out for new and improved art to go along w/ this fic, even if it is super lame that I draw stuff based off my own writing lol.
> 
> So yes, there is still more I want to do within this verse, so don't be surprised if I turn this into a Series in the near future! This is my first official fic I've ever posted anywhere, and I have a ton more Marvel fics up my sleeve that I no longer feel too nervous to post now that I've gotten this monster fic out of my system. The reception has been amazing, and I appreciate every kudos, share, and comment. They mean the world to me and I never would've been motivated to finish this fic, and I'm excited to write more for y'all. Check my bio for links to find me yelling about fandom things elsewhere, if that tickles your fancy at all. <3


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